


Dark Prince

by Spiced_Wine



Series: Dark Prince ~ The Darkness Has Its Own Light [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - Tolkien, The Silmarillion - Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Dubious Consent, Gay Sex, Incest, M/M, Non Consensual, Rape, Slash, Slavery, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-02 19:57:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 73
Words: 148,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/pseuds/Spiced_Wine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>~ Lúthien was not the only offspring of Maia and Elf born in the Elder Days, but Vanimórë's tale was never to be sung in glittering halls.</p><p>His mother was Elven.<br/>His father was Sauron.<br/>His birth was accomplished by the blackest sorcery of Morgoth Bauglir.</p><p>He was forged as a double-edged sword is forged, as lethal and as beautiful.<br/>And they tested him to breaking-point.</p><p>He would not break.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>"Until the sky breaks and the mountains fall into the Great Sea, and the End cometh, there is no world for us." ~ Vanimórë Gorthaurion.</i></p><p> </p><p>The first of the Dark Prince series, the story of Sauron's son, born to be a weapon, a warrior, a servant of the Dark - or its eternal enemy. ~</p><p>First Age to the War of the Ring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Son Of Cruelty

**Author's Note:**

>   
> Dark Prince is an Alternate Universe, however, the Middle-earth history written of and referred to, is taken from the Silmarillion, Unfinished Tales, the History of Middle-earth books, and Lord of the Rings.
> 
> The southern lands and cities in Dark Prince, Dark Lands, Dark Blood and Dark God, are © to the [](http:)Lindëfirion site, who permit their maps to be used if credit is given. I thank them for their wonderful work.
> 
>  
> 
> _Please heed the warnings and rating. This story contains content matter including M/M slash, incest, violence, graphic sex, rape (het and slash) dub-con and torture. Warnings are not necessary for all chapters, but they are there for a reason; the subject matter is dark._
> 
>  
> 
> **Disclaimer:** I merely borrow from the works of J.R.R. Tolkien. My stories are written purely for pleasure, and no money is made from them. However the original characters of Vanimórë Gorthaurion, Elgalad Meluion and Tindómion Maglorion, the Dark Prince AU of Tolkiens universe, and the plotlines are © to Sian Lloyd-Pennell. 2004-2010 and may not be used, archived or reproduced without my permission.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art commission by Omupied 
> 
> http://omupied.deviantart.com/

  
  


[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=slmxpv)

~ She was a proud woman, Moriel of the people of Finrod, proud and deeply loving. Her love for her husband was a fierce, passionate thing. No Doom, no Exile could break their bond. Or so she believed.

''I am for thee, always,'' she had said. ''Nothing will separate us now. I have sworn it. Promise me no-one will come between us. Promise me!''  
  
And he had agreed, smiling that complicated smile, (He had chosen her, after all) taken her face between his hands and kissed her until she burned, making a new light under the cold stars of Endor.

That seemed so long ago now and he was gone, she had seen him die...and yet in this place, once so fair, and now clogged with blackness, he came to her: Hendunár her husband. But those eyes...they were not his eyes, brilliant and tender. These were cold, devouring her beauty which was as a star in the frigid darkness.

''Moriel,'' he whispered. ''I love thee.''

But Hendunár had never loved her thus, as if she were nothing, forcing her, hard and savage and with each thrust, the mocking: ''I love thee.''

He was dead, yet he was here, on her, within her. She clung to that belief even as she was raped, her mind rocking like a boat cast from its moorings, like the Swan Ships that had foundered. He was dead...he was here...He had to be here, the other image, of black arrows flashing into his body, of blades coming down on him until he was gone under the blows and hacked...that was not the truth. She had not been bound by clawed hands which pawed her and ripped her robe, her gown, until some unheard command halted them and she was dragged through the mists. Hearing voices around her, the clash of a skirmish, she cried out, but the fog swallowed her and left no trace.

No...! He was not dead. He was here, with her...

Hendunár...!

She kept her eyes closed. When it was over she breathed carefully, lost to herself, alive only in memory

''Now thou wilt rest,'' Sauron said, and added another word, a name of vileness and filth, shaped from mouths which spewed such, making a mockery of the language of the Eldar. He laughed and touched her stomach, over the womb. And she knew, through the slowly rising madness within her, she knew. Inside her, very deep, a screaming began.

Through the year of her pregnancy, her mind wandered. She was mad then; only the power of Morgoth Bauglir kept her soul chained to her body.

And after birthing, Moriel died. She gave to her twins the fierce beauty of the Eldar, her pride and, as if it was the last grace she could give, her ability to love.

 

Tol-in-Gaurhoth 464 First Age

 

It was beautiful once, thought the boy, as his fingers smeared through the grime of the walls. Beneath it, etchings inlaid with opalescent pearl gleamed softly. He stared at them in wonder.

He wandered where he would, if he dared, for no-one touched him; they knew not to, those creatures with their ragged teeth and cruel claws. They watched, leered, but laid no hand on him, and so at whiles he crept into abandoned rooms, where rich hangings gathered dirt and cobwebs. The glint of gold and silver threads still shone under the mold. Most had been torn down, anything of value long taken, but the impression of great strength and greater beauty lingered.

Who were they? Who built this? he wondered.

Who built this? The voice pierced his mind like a cold awl. A hand of iron and ice closed around the neck of his tunic, tearing the frail cloth. I will show thee!

The boy's feet scrabbled for purchase on the damp steps as he was propelled downwards. He struggled, was struck sharply, as if being brought to attention. A bruise flowered on his dirty cheekbone and he tasted blood as he bit down on his tongue. His eyes, under sooty lashes glared purple defiance.

He was terrified of Sauron, Master of the tower; there was a dreadful power in him, a strange, cruel beauty. His gaze ripped through the eyes and into the mind. Before it one felt as nothing. His sister tried to hide when Sauron came to their chamber, and it was her fear that forced the boy to reach within himself for a bravado he could not even pretend to feel.

Their food was scanty and poor, and the water tasted as if it had lain too long in some old, rusted barrel. The thin blankets scratched the skin; their clothes were shapeless, their feet bare. The children fared little better than houseless beggars in some rotting city of men.

Vanimórë, he had been called and his sister was Vanya. Sauron had laughed without humor as he pronounced the names; neither knew why, only that there was contempt in it.

Vanimórë had learned to steal not long after he learned to walk. He would thieve bread, sometimes meat and, swift as a fox, would flee with it to their rooms. If he was caught, he was beaten, but only by the Master, no-one else touched them. Vanya watched the punishment until she shook with sobs, begging Sauron to cease, and after she would tend to the injuries. Vanimórë did not weep, and would never plead.

As Sauron grasped him, Vanimórë struggled and was rammed against the wall. His head cracked against the stone, and white lights shattered his vision. He shut his teeth hard.

''Do not resist me, fool. Thou hast asked a question, and I will answer it.''

Vanimórë lost his balance and was hauled, bare legs and feet scraping and knocking against stone. They were descending deeper into the tower now, a place the boy had never been. The rooms had been used for storage once, but now they served a different purpose. At times he and Vanya would hear screams drifting on the air, and knew they were birthed down here.

Armored orcs stood guard at the door. They flung them open, almost bumping into one another in their haste as Sauron swept past into a room where fire glowed red. Vanimórë saw strange implements thrust into braziers, heard a hiss, smelled a vile stench.

''Here, slave, look.'' Sauron's voice held chill amusement as he dragged back the long hair, forcing the child to look up.

Hanging in manacles was a figure, his arms stretched over his head. He was bound in chains, skin mottled with bruises and the weeping, sizzling wounds of hot metal. Vanimórë's stomach roiled, but amazement quelled his rising gorge.  
He had never seen anyone like this before. A mass of black hair curtained the man's face, and cascaded to his thighs. His skin was white as the marble the boy revealed when he cleaned dirt from the carven walls.

As Sauron spoke, the captive raised his head, and Vanimore gazed entranced at a face agonized, but hauntingly fair. His eyes held such a light that the child felt sudden tears of awe and longing flood his own.

''No, my lord, no ! Let him go !'' His plea was instinctive and the man stared and loosed a flood of words in a alien tongue. Vanimórë could not understand them, but the hate and loathing chimed so much with his own emotions that he felt an unexpected and shocking sense of partisanship.

''Let him go? Very well.'' Sauron smiled. He loosed his grip on Vanimórë's hair, and stepped before the chained figure, spreading his long fingered hand on the chest. Then he thrust his fingers through and tore out the heart.

''No !'' Vanimórë hurled himself at Sauron in a flurry of thin limbs, tangling in long robes. His shoulder creaked under a tight grip, then he was thrown back, his buttocks hitting the floor hard. Looking up, he felt a warm splash strike his face.  
The heart seemed to beat for a long time before it stopped.

''Beautiful is it not? No?'' Sauron smeared rich arterial blood across Vanimórë's skin. ''They built Tol-in-Gaurhoth, slave. Noldorin Elves. Just skin and bone and blood, when all is said and done.''

~~~

 

In the small room he shared with his twin, Vanimórë wept, curled in upon himself. His sister held him helplessly.

''They built this place,'' he choked. ''He was beautiful.'' He raised a face washed white with tears through blood and dirt. ''He looked like... like you, Vanya.''  
He had never, in that place seen his own reflection, or he might have realized that the prisoner had also looked like him.

"Perhaps we are their children." He swallowed his sobs at the stunning thought. "Perhaps...they will come for us one day."

"But why would they have left us?" Vanya smoothed back his hair and handed him a cup of water.

"I do not know," he admitted, slipping one arm about her. "Perhaps we were too small to...run away."

 

Angband: 464 First Age

 

The wind blew bitter from the north.  
Mountains marched at their right hand for many days on that northward journey, and at times the children saw, far up, vast bird-shapes; for those peaks were the dwelling place of the Great Eagles. Beyond them, hidden from the eyes of Melkor, lay the shining city of Gondolin where ruled Turgon, second son of Fingolfin. Vanimórë did not know that then. He knew very little.

Once, the great plain they crossed had been called Ard Galen, but when Dagor Bragollach came and all the green was withered, it was given a new name, Anfauglith, the Gasping Dust. Nothing grew there. At whiles the tramping feet of the orcs and troll-guard crunched on bone.

The children's eyes widened on the mountains that loured before them, climbing into the fume-laden skies. Here, on an outlying spur of the Iron Mountains had been delved Angband, the Hells of Iron. From those excavations were raised the threefold peaks of Thangorodrim, which ever vented strange smokes, noxious and cloying. Black and monstrously tall, they climbed into a red sky across which clouds streaked like iron bars which would imprison even the stars.  
In Tol-in-Gaurhoth, shrouded in gelid mists, the children had never seen stars. Vanimórë stared at them in wonder, astounded by their beauty, but as they approached Angband the stars dimmed, clouded by darkness.

Angband, fortress of a Power.

The road ran under huge battlements below a precipice, and into a down-sloping tunnel whereat the children balked. The horror pounded on their minds as they walked, clinging to each other until Sauron's hand slapped them apart. Their small feet pattered noiselessly after his robes down labyrinthine stairs, past rooms where reddish light flared and raucous laughter and screams issued. Arrhythmic pounding echoed and re-echoed. It seemed an Age until they came to vast, iron bound doors, shaped like a snarling, enfanged mouth, and what guarded them caused fresh terror to leap into their throats.  
At first the creatures looked like shadows, but a sense of dark strength and burning emanated from deep within. As they moved, laval fire shone in their eyes and streaming manes poured down their shoulders; either great wings or cloaks fell behind them. Both bore huge swords.

The doors swung open and Sauron entered. He siezed each of the children and dragged them past great pillars and torches which spattered hell-light over them.  
Something – some-one – sat upon a vast throne at the end of the chamber.

The oppression slammed into them like an iron fist and buckled their knees. Shivers weltered through Vanimórë's body, and his tongue clove dust-dry to the roof of his mouth as a voice spoke, dark as unending night, carrying the thrum of naked Power.

''Look up.''

Compelled by the greatest Power who dwelt in Middle-earth, the children's eyes rose. Vanimore almost cried out. He heard his sister whimper, and reflexively reached for her small hand. It was like ice.

Tall and terrible He was. His eyes flicked between black and red, and a force of might poured from them. His will demanded obedience, that they grovel before him like the nothings they were; and they would have, but that their eyes were captured by what He wore on his brow.

The crown was of black iron, ornate, and heavy. Claws like cruel talons grasped three jewels whose light, even in this place shone with with defiant glory.  
Thus did the children see the Silmarilli, stolen from Fëanor in Formenos, and the cause of an Oath which made Melkor smile for the tragedy inherent in it.

''They might be Elves, save for these eyes.''

Vanimore clenched his jaw as a hand – it burned...! – siezed his chin.

''Pretty, are they not, my Lord?''

''Thy blood, my power, increases their rate of growth, it would appear. Interesting. Yes, I am pleased...''

Thy blood? Vanimórë thought dazedly, and heard a rumble of laughter.

''Dost thou not know thine own father when thou seest him, boy?''  
The laughter seemed to rebound from the walls and pillars of the room. The children cowered down.

No! Vanimórë cried soundlessly. He is not our father...Not our father...! Not! Not...! Blackness came down on his soul like the end of the world.

 

~~~

 

The children grew like weeds. Perhaps it was Sauron's blood indeed, or the power Melkor disgorged over them, or both. They grew. And from the moment of entering Angband, Vanimórë fought. Thus began his long battle against submission.

One day he was summoned, taken down many stairs into a pit about which torches were lit. Great orcs stood about and Gothmog, greatest of the Balrogs, High Captain of Angband. Melkor was there, the Silmarilli blazing on his brow, but two of them only, for even in their distant chamber the twins had heard his fury as he woke from enchanted sleep to find one of them cut from its housing.

To the very depths of Hell had come a Mortal called Beren and Lúthien Tinúviel, daughter of Melian the Maia, and Elu Thingol, King in Doriath. Lúthien, singing to Melkor, dancing before him in her glory, had cast he and his court into slumber, allowing Beren to release one of the Silmaril and flee with it.  
Terrifying rage had siezed the Dark Lord and the corridors had trembled with his fury, yet Beren and Lúthien had escaped and the tale of it was whispered among the thralls who labored in the forges, among the orcs and wolf-demons. Vanimore had felt a fierce trembling of delight. Until then, all he had known was the ever-massing power of Melkor, which would sweep all the frail defenses of Elves and Men before it.

''It is time for thy training to begin, Slave.'' Melkor pushed a tall figure before him.

The Elf's eyes still blazed, though blood traced his form from the marks of whip and bruises. He wore only tattered breeches and doeskin boots, long hair caught back from his face.

''And here is thy teacher, who did come all the way from the Blessed Realm to help thee become a warrior. Thou shouldst be honored.'' Harsh mirth followed.

The warrior stared at the youth. He was white skinned and his hair, tied up with a leather thong fell in a plume like the tail of a war-horse to his knees, the darkest of blue-blacks. He was beautiful, but the eyes were unnatural; they were dark purple. It was as if his face were a statue's with gems set in the eye-sockets.

Who is this?

''He is just a slave, thrall, as art thou. Thou shalt train him.'' Melkor's voice smiled with black malice.

''I will do nothing for thee, Morgoth Bauglir! ''

It was the first time Vanimórë had heard that name: Morgoth, first cast at him by Fëanor after learning of his father's death and the theft of the Silmarilli. Melkor's fist sent the Elf flying backward, puffing up black sand, and Vanimórë gasped:  
"No ! Please !I wish to learn !"  
He took a few steps forward. His words seeming to float away and hang on the air, and his temerity almost made his heart stop as Melkor's vast shadow spread over the thrall. Dropping to his knees under it, his mouth dry as the sand, Vanimórë saw in his mind Sauron tearing the heart from the prisoner in Tol-in-Gaurhoth...  
And Melkor read his thoughts.

''Thou dost not desire to see his brains crushed out under my foot, slave? No? In time thou wilt learn to enjoy such things. But thou doth need a teacher.'' A deeper darkness laced through the words, as he turned, extending one scarred hand. It was said that the light of the Silmarilli had burned him when he fled from Aman with them, and he could never be free of the pain.

''Beg me, Slave.'' Vanimórë lowered his head, his lips scorching as he touched them to Melkor's fingers.  
''Master. I beg thee. Spare this one.'' He tried not to flinch as his chin was brought up.

''Thou wilt learn...many things, Slave. Now, crawl to him.'' He gestured to the Elf.

The rough grit was warm as Vanimórë went on hands and knees.

Please, do not defy him, do not allow him to kill thee.

Whom art thou?

I am nothing.

''My Slave pleads for thy life, thrall. Should I let him have it?''

Please !  
And then Melkor's voice slid into Vanimórë's mind like oil. He hesitated for a moment, then slid his hands into the Elf's hair, ran them lightly over a bruised cheek. His lips touched the darkening of the flesh, the corner of the lush mouth...He froze and jerked back as laughter bounded through the pit.

''Thou hast so much to learn, young one. I will enjoy instructing thee. Get up.''

~~~

 

"I am called Valóron," the Elf told Vanimórë, after their first training bout. That was all he learned that day, but Gothmog and Melkor had watched, seen the speed and strength of Sauron's son. And Melkor was pleased.

Valóron did more than train. From him, Vanimórë learned from him of the Noldor, of Valinor, of the Oath of Fëanor, and much more. He acquired the language, some Quenya, but mostly Sindarin. There was so much he did not know ! Valóron thought him of the people of Finrod Felagund, he whom had built Tol Sirion, which became Tol-in-Gaurhoth. Surely Vanimórë had been captured and enslaved as a very young child? That must explain his ignorance.

Vanimore did not disabuse him. He had found his first friend, and could not bear to see the loathing which would awaken in Valóron's eyes if he admitted his parentage. ~

 

~~~

 

Chapter End Notes:  
Findaráto- Finrod

Art, Feimo.

Since this has come up in emails, conversations (even my b/f asked) and would doubtless have canon purists protesting that 'Elves have grey eyes!' I'll explain why Van's eyes are violet/purple.  
In the late 80's I started collecting the MERP (Middle-earth Role Play) modules. They were almost like add-on's to Tolkien's work. The canon was fair,(not 100%, but nor is most fanfic) they were well written and included geography, history, politics and some good maps.  
In the modules they stated that the Vanyar Elves had clear blue or violet eyes. Canon or no, I liked the idea. In the module dealing with Ost-in-Edhil they described Sauron (as Annatar) as looking like a Vanya. It stayed in my mind: a fair Sauron with lavender eyes. About four years ago I had the idea for Dark Prince, and I immediately saw Van with violet eyes, darker than his father's. So there is a reason for his purple eyes, not based on canon, or fanon, (unless MERP can be counted as fanon) and we don't actually know what Annatar looked like. The image remained with me, and made it's way into a story, eventually. :)


	2. To See Death As A Gift

~ Vanimórë trained, and he was observed both by Melkor and his father. He became accustomed to Valóron waiting for him, cherished their time together even as his young body hardened under the tutelage. He bore his hurts philosophically, for it meant he could be with the Elf, listen to his words, feel the inner glow of pride when he pleased his teacher.  
  
But this day Valóron was absent. One of the Balrogs waited there.   
Looking up at the demon, whose darkness broke apart to show depths of ember light, Vanimórë's heart grew cold; fear touched it like a breath.   
  
''Where is my trainer?'' he demanded, dry-mouthed, tilting back his head.  
  
''He is of no further use, young one.'' Gothmog spoke from the sidelines. ''Thy further training begins here.''  
  
''What? He...? Is he _dead?_'' A fury unlike anything he had experienced exploded through Vanimórë. It detonated through him, was uncontrollable, and he did not desire to control it. He wanted to _kill._  
  
He leaped even as he spoke, borne on that overmastering blood tide of rage, his movements faster than the Balrog anticipated; a graceful blur who spun as he turned, his sword opening a cut which spilled red ichor onto the sand. Landing like a cat, he caught the descending sword against his own blade, muscles locking, strained with effort, until he released it. That sudden move unbalanced the Balrog. It stumbled forward even as Vanimórë came to his feet behind it, and in one move sliced across the base of the demon's legs. A bellow burst from the great throat.   
  
''Taking on physical form _does_ mean thou canst be hurt,'' he spat in savage triumph. The Balrog was hamstrung. Steaming blood hissed from it's wounds. Vanimórë forced himself to stare at Gothmog, his own eyes holding red flame as they reflected back the demon's inner fire. He held the stare for a long moment, then strode from the pit.  
  
''You!'' he cried to one of the troll guard. ''Take me to the thrall vaults! I would see what was done with the Elf!''  
  
He had toughened against this brood, even Gothmog himself, his hatred melded with a youthful, arrogant authority, for he was beginning to realize that he did have some; not over Sauron, of course, and not over Gothmog. But he was useful. He could kick against the pricks to a certain degree.   
  
''Thy twin will make a more obedient slave,'' Gothmog rumbled. Vanimórë whirled to face him.  
  
''What didst thou say?'' His tone dropped into deadly quiet.   
  
''Ask the Lord, Slave !''  
  
''I am asking _thee,_ Gothmog!''   
  
''Oh, wilt thou face me, thou little _nothing_ ! I, who slew Fëanor and Fingon, High Kings of the Noldor, who have lead legions in battle, and slain thy mother's kin before thou wert ever more than a thought in the mind of Sauron? Ah, I would like to break thee, _Slave._'' He loomed over Vanimórë, and the fire-tinged shadow obliterated him, save for two burning violet eyes.   
  
''Ask the Lord.'' A mutter of laughter. ''I believe he is in the thrall-vaults. With thy...friend.''  
  
Vanimórë cursed as he ran from the pit, taking the ways where, at each corner, dreadful statues as of trolls entombed in living rock loomed at him. He raced toward the warren of cells where the thralls who labored in the furnaces and forges of Angband were housed, and pushed past great-orc guards who cast him red glares in the hellish dimness. He had never been here before, did not know where to go. He spun as a door crashed open.   
  
''Slave, thou desirest speech with me?''  
  
In Vanimórë's burning anger grew a core of fear.   
  
_And if I fear him always I will do nothing...ever, I will be just what Gothmog called me: A nothing._  
  
''Thou art _nothing,_'' Melkor mocked. ''What wouldst thou ask me?" A hand like a hill descended on one shoulder and forced Vanimórë to his knees. ''Of thy twin? Or of thy friend?'' Eyes of flame and blackness laughed at him. ''He would shrink from thee in horror if he knew who sired thee.''   
He gestured to the door behind him, and then the robes, which always smelled of metal and fire, brushed past him. Vanimórë rose, a blazing of fear and loathing in his eyes as he shouldered open the door.   
  
A torch spluttered in a bracket casting a dim, dancing glow as if it too chuckled with laughter at the sight of the ruined man laying on the stone floor. There was nothing of comfort here; little enough in Vanimórë's own chambers but here nothing at all, though some thralls used old garments for laying upon, verminous and filthy. Valóron lay on his stomach, his long hair drenching the marks on his back, in the guttering light, the blood on his thighs showed like pitch.  
  
Sauron's son had learned much in his time here. He knew that Elves who were taken by force died. Most of the thralls here were tortured, poorly fed, but rarely toyed with unless their usefulness was at an end.  
  
_But he is...my friend. _  
  
As gently as he could, he turned Valóron on his back, and spoke his name.  
  
The Elf flinched, shuddered, raised a hand over his face. ''No!''  
  
''It is I,'' Vanimórë whispered.  
  
The grey eyes fluttered open. They were agonized, soul-wounded.   
''Vanimórë?''   
  
''Yes, my friend.''  
  
''Fëapolda,'' murmured the dying Elf. ''Call me so at this last. Thus I was named in Tirion, by my lord, Maitimo, son of Fëanaro. It is Faerbol, in these hither lands.''  
  
''That is a fitting name, Fëapolda, for thy spirit is indeed strong.'' Vanimórë felt his throat close. ''Please, be strong now, for me. Please fight, do not let..._Him_ triumph over thee!''  
  
''Canst thou not see? My body is strong, but... He is a Power, he has torn into my body and soul both. I must pass to the Halls of Waiting, to be judged by Námo, for I am Exile and beyond the mercy of the Valar.''  
  
"Are they as cruel as He, then?" Vanimórë cried. "Is there no mercy anywhere?"  
  
''There has to be...'' The long-lashed eyes closed again. ''Thou must try to escape from here, before He...'' His voice faded, rose again after a moment. ''Stay with me?''  
  
Vanimórë's eyes burned with tears. ''Fëapolda...'' He thought of his twin, the words of Gothmog and Melkor, an icy despair spreading through him, but he nodded, drew Fëapolda against him, feeling the coldness of his limbs. ''T-tell me of thy home...''  
  
He felt the unseen and gloating delight as Fëapolda died, and bent his head. The tears forced their way under his lashes.   
  
_Find rest, my friend, find the Light beyond the Darkness._ And Vanimórë wept as he knelt in the thrall-vaults in the Hells of Iron.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
The sounds of celebration echoed like a thunder through the cavernous pits and halls of Angband.   
Nargothrond was fallen; the realm of Finrod, whom had died in Tol-in-Gaurhoth in the fulfillment of his oath to aid Beren. Glaurung the Golden, father of the drakes which Morgoth bred had issued forth and slain and burned, despoiling. And Morgoth was pleased.  
  
Nargothrond's fall was entwined with a curse. Sauron had taken Vanimórë onto Thangorodrim to see a Man bound to a stone seat. His eyes were filled with an iron will, and horror at what he was forced to witness, for he had been cursed to see all things through Melkor's eyes. Húrin Thalion he was, of the Men of the House of Hador, and he had been captured at the Fen of Serech, standing firm to allow the host of Gondolin to vanish into the mountains.  
Melkor desired to know the location of Turgon's realm. It had become an obsession with him, so much so that from the few words he heard, Vanimórë thought he must fear it.  
  
Turgon, king of Gondolin was also High King of all the Noldor and Melkor's spies whispered that Húrin and his brother Huor – whom had died at Serech – had been taken to Gondolin by the great Eagles, and dwelt there before being returned to their people. But naught would Húrin tell his captor, not though a doom was laid upon all his family which unfolded, in the world beyond, in one of the most tragic tales of the Elder Days.  
  
When Vanimórë saw that a Man could defy Melkor through years of torment, he was doubly determined to do the same. Not that there was any alternative; he resisted, or he capitulated. There was no middle way.

~~~

  
  
The time had come. It was upon him. He knew it as he entered the dark chamber where his sister stood, and was struck afresh by her beauty in this place where there was nothing lovely, save the holiness of the two gems which burned on Melkor's brow. Tall she was, her grey eyes luminous, hair falling unbound to her knees. Her lips were soft and flushed with blood.   
But he had never seen her clad thus. Treasures had been taken from Nargothrond, and among the loot this which she wore: a gown tired for a noblewoman in shades of blue and violet. A mesh of gold lay on her head, strands of amethyst and pearl depending from it to blend with the waves of her hair.   
  
''Vanya?'' He leaned back against the door, a sudden deep fear gripping his muscles. ''What is this?''  
  
''Lord Sauron commanded I wear them.'' Her pale throat moved as she swallowed. ''I am to go before..._Him_ this night, the Master. Why? Has he said...aught to thee?'' She came to him and took his hands, looking up at him, as if, he thought, he could do _anything _to avert what was planned for her.   
  
Vanimórë met her eyes, this one so one dear to him, who, when he returned from training, cleansed his wounds, humbled herself to get wine for him, had held him when he returned from watching Valóron die.  
  
''Dost thou trust me, Vanya?" he whispered, resting his brow against hers.   
_Do not think, do not think!_  
  
''I do, thou knowest I do,'' she reassured him softly not adding, for he knew, that he was the only one she loved. He was the only brightness in her life.  
  
''Vanya,'' he said, his throat full of hot coals. ''I love thee. My sister. My life. My light.''   
  
The movement was so swift he _knew_ she felt nothing. He knew because he felt the bond which so closely tied their souls snap instantly, snuff out like a candle as he took her head in his hands – and broke her neck.   
  
She was gone, falling bonelessly against him, hair flooding to the floor, the gentle music of the gemstones tinkling like rain through the harsh sound of his breathing. He dropped to his knees, cradling her in his arms.   
  
''My dear love...'' He could not breathe, could not see, felt the burning flood of tears over his cheeks. Hollowness yawned like a wound within him, flaying his soul open to agony. ''I had to...''  
  
The door opened. Pride and despair stopped his tears as if he ran them into a wall.  
  
_Thou art safe from him Vanya, neither of them can touch thee now. _  
  
One hand dragged him to his feet. Vanimórë stood motionless and fey, staring at his father.  
And then Sauron laughed; there was genuine approval in the sound.  
  
''Either the one or the other. Either of thee will suffice." ~   
  
  
  
~~~


	3. 'I Will Not Break.'

~ ''_No._'' The word was torn from his throat.

His father's hands grasped his hair, dragging him forward.

''She would have have died too soon to please him, anyhow,'' he said.

Vanya's body lay on the floor, fine robes and gems adorning a form from which he had reft the life, in bitterest grief, in horror, with deepest love. Her eyes stared sightlessly at the flickering torches.

''_No,_'' Vanimórë said. _Vanya..._

''Fool. What thinks't thou thy purpose is, or hers _was_? Whatever _He_ chooses it it to be. Thou art his slave, and mine.''

''I am not thy slave,'' he cried. ''And I am not his _plaything_!''  
_Vanya, my dear, my dear..._

''And what makes thee so different from any of us in that regard? Thou art _His_.''

Gothmog came then with two other Balrog's, and Vanimórë fought while being made to realize the futility of resistance. They bound him. He felt the tendrils of Sauron's mind wrap around his, and still he struggled as he was dragged down the echoing passages of the Hells of Iron to the throne room.

''Recalcitrant, is he?'' Melkor lifted the white face from its loose whorls of hair, saw the amethyst eyes gleaming in defiance and grief. Sauron made a brief gesture that his son did not see, and Melkor nodded.

It was the first, the last, the only time Vanimórë called on his father.

Pain tore through him, spiraling up to a snapping point which seemed to burst through the top of his skull, force sweat from his pores. His body ripped, blood scalded like acid in the torn muscles as he was raped, held by hands like iron, which themselves burned his flesh.

He knew a scream broke from him, unintelligible pleas for help which did not come, would never come. When he swooned, Morgoth ruthlessly pulled him back into awareness, to the brutal thudding. Blood ran warm down his legs, tears down his cheeks until the scald of Morgoth's release wrung a last moan from him. Released, he sprawled on the shining black stone and from the unconsciousness which pulled at him, he heard laughter, deep with satisfaction.

''Thou hast done...extraordinarily well."

"I thank thee, my Lord. So I think, also."

Vanimórë screamed, his eyes flared open as fingers thrust themselves inside him.  
_ No more, no more, please! _  
Tears squeezed themselves like blood-sweat from his shut eyes.

''He is delightful,'' Morgoth said, a smile in his voice. ''Thou hast served for this day. Thy chamber awaits thee. If thou canst get there.'' Fresh laughter hissed in the fiery shadows.

Vanimórë tried to move, whimpering with the burn of his torn passage, his bruised hips. The great doors seemed as far away as hope.

''Or thou may stay, I will hunger again in a short while, since thou didst take away from me mine other dish of virginity.''

Grief and rage sparked. His tangled hair dragged on the stone as he forced himself to his knees, staggered. He fell again, slammed one knee. Blood and essence ran warm and sticky down his thighs. A kick sent him back down on his face.

''He knows his place already,'' 

Vanimórë pushed himself to his knees and crawled, teeth set, to the doors. He forced himself along the flags of the passage beyond. Slow steps followed him, and he heard moans, whispers, laughter from the enthralled observers. Fear was his only spur, hate his only defense against the siege of those gloating eyes.

He woke within the doorway of his chamber, tasting blood, from bitten lips. Using the wall to support him, he rose, leaned against it. The sweat on his back was icy.

Vanya's body was gone. His throat ached with tears.

_But I had to... _ He shuddered uncontrollably. _ I cannot regret it. _

_I will not regret it ._

He limped to the water-bucket. All water in this place tasted as though it had filtered through rusting iron, but now it was sweet and cooling in his throat, on his body. The wash-rag stained it red and he groaned as he cleansed himself, more hot tears slipping down his cheeks. At last he hobbled to the pallet and collapsed, not knowing where to put himself to relieve the pain.

_Elves die of this, Fëapolda, did...._

_Thou wilt not die._ Morgoth's voice smashed into his mind, wielded like Grond. _I have walked in the Void, it is my province, Slave, and there I will torment thee for eternity, if thou doth die. But my pleasures will not kill thee, half-breed. Thou art no Elf. Thy fate is not theirs._

Vanimórë closed his eyes. From somewhere, deeper that the deepest floor of the Hells, there rose up a sheet of iron will. It pushed grief, pain, and anguish before it until they erupted from him in a torrent of agony, one scream which echoed back from the dark walls. After, only the steel remained. It was not yet tempered, was still malleable, but it was there; the armor of his soul.

_There is no-one to help me. There is nothing. _

He knew that his tears, his fears were meat and drink to Melkor. The Dark Lord fed on it; it enriched him.

_He can feed elsewhere !_

His eyes opened, and the hidden watcher saw them luminous purple the darkness, touched with a savage fierce glitter.

_ I will **not** break. I swear to thee, Morgoth, Sauron, whatever powers exist. I **swear** I will not break! _ ~

~~~


	4. Tempering The Steel

~ He had to endure. Or die.

''There is no Aman for thee, Slave,'' Melkor told him, drumming the hopeless reality into Vanimórë's mind. ''The Noldo thrall deceived thee. If thou doth die, there is only the Void; Eternal Night. Nothing for a _Nothing._ And always I. Thou canst never escape me...''

Vanimórë believed it. He had to; he was Sauron's son. His fate was not that of the Elves. Had he unwittingly sent his sister to the Void? He prayed not, he prayed to the One, the Creator of whom Fëapolda had spoken, that her gentle soul would be granted mercy.  
Because he was useful, developing into a supremely skilled warrior, Vanimórë was allowed to continue his training, and was sent to the Men of the East, vassals of Melkor, to train their young. He had an aptitude for war. But Melkor sent for him on occasion, and as Vanimórë grew older his fury increased. Melkor knew it, and enjoyed the helpless rage, enjoyed humbling the fierce pride in those purple eyes. It was Noldorin pride and beauty, and he had ever wished to dominate the Noldor.

In the almost ninety years from the Fall of Nargothrond until the War of Wrath, Vanimórë spent much of the time among the Easterling's. It was then he began to wield the twin swords which he used ever after. He took lovers also, learning through patience and intuition how to please and feel pleasure. Those he chose seemed eager - too eager, he thought. He was sent from Angband, what choice did they have but to please him? He did not see what he had become and had he considered it, would not have cared. His own war of hate and pride, the times of violation, unseated all else in his mind. No lover touched his heart. All were a temporary release, an affirmation that Melkor would not rob him of his own desires. He cared for no one. How could he come to caring, after the killing of his own sister, no matter how pure his motives had been?  
Yet he saw love; mothers and fathers smiling at children, the thralls in Angband tending one another, offering to their fellow captives a comfort out of their own suffering. He knew that there were things Melkor could not control, for all his power. There had to be, or all hope would be gone - but he himself did not possess hope, only a steely determination. Death might break him, Melkor never would.

The latter years seemed to be ones of unalloyed triumph for Melkor for, after hundreds of years of secrecy, the location of the hidden city of Gondolin was discovered. Melkor had indeed guessed the region wherein it lay, but it was not until one from the city was captured, that a way was found to it. Vanimórë did not see the man, sister-son of the King, Turgon, but when he learned that Maeglin had revealed all to Melkor in return for rulership of Gondolin, he curled his lip in disdain. When did Melkor ever keep a bargain?

Gondolin fell. Vanimórë was not there. Melkor and Sauron both believed the half-breed too drawn to the Eldar to be trusted, as yet. When he was older, more beaten into obedience, more corrupted he would be of great use to them. But Vanimórë heard of it, and was dourly delighted when he learned of Gothmog's death.

There were some survivors. Word had been brought back of a few thousand making their way out of the city by a secret route. Gothmog's captain Daachas had intercepted them, only to go to his death with an Elf Lord in gold-etched armor and golden hair, who gave battle and his own life in single combat so that the refugees might live.

The thralls took heart from the whispered rumors, and so did Vanimórë who hoped fiercely that some had indeed fled the sack of the city. Melkor and Sauron laughed at the workings of the terrible Oath of Fëanor, which brought about the second and third kinslayings, in Doriath and later, far south at the mouths of Sirion.

The Eldar and their allies the Edain, were scattered and broken, driven to the shores of the sea or across the Blue Mountains. There was little left of the great leaguer which had fenced Beleriand with bright swords before Vanimórë had been born. It seemed only a matter of time before Melkor triumphed utterly, for the forges of Angband did not cease, and orcs bred swiftly in the bowels of the fortress. Men continued to come out of the East and became vassals of the Dark.

The Easterlings who dwelt east of Angband lived in tent cities, with some wooden buildings for use as storage in the hard lands. In the winters, which lasted long, their pathways were clogged with mud, in the summers they stank of human and animal waste, even though latrine trenches were dug and filled in. But the interior of Vanimórë's great pavilion was spotless. He conducted most of his work there, sitting at a large trestle table. Behind this main room was another for times of privacy or his infrequent rest. Here his armor was placed upon a stand and there was a beaten copper bathing tub where he washed. There was a scent of heather, lavender and mint, the plants and herbs which scented his water. Vanimórë, was always scrupulously clean; he felt defiled.

Evening was drawing on as he entered the tent, pulling off his helm, shaking out his hair. Among the neatly rolled maps and charts on the table, some-one had carefully placed a wooden bowl of wild strawberries; one or two had rolled up against a scroll and he picked them up, savoring the sweet flesh. Then his eyes narrowed and he swept through to his inner chamber.

There was a sudden small scuffle and he stopped, leaning sideways to see a face peering from behind a chest.

''So, what wouldst thou have of me, intruder?'' he lifted the child by the scruff of his worn robe and held him up. Thin from undernourishment, the slanted black eyes were huge and petrified in the dirty countenance. A strawberry, squashed by clenching fingers fell to the tent floor.

"A thief too," Vanimórë said sternly. "What should I do with thee? Cut off thy hand?"

The dark eyes filled with tears.  
''Great Lord...please... ''

Vanimórë deposited him on the pallet and folded his arms.  
''Stay there, or I will feed thee to the ravens.''  
As he looked over his shoulder, he winked, straight-faced.

One meal later, dirt pitilessly scrubbed from his lice-infested hide and hair, the child slept dreamlessly upon Vanimórë's pallet as in the outer chamber, he spoke to the Chieftain and his Captain.

"But there are many such brats, Lord," Gamarth said. ''They are like vermin.''

''Thou art wasting potential warriors, Gamarth,'' Vanimore said coldly. ''Erect a large tent for them, round them up, they will be given food, find an elder – some-one whom was wounded in battle or training - to oversee them, and I will have them trained, by the time they reach manhood, they will be strong warriors. I cannot believe such waste.'' He added scathingly. ''I thought thee a more intelligent Man than that, than to have this before thee and not see it!''

Gamarth flinched and bowed.  
'' It will be done, Lord. ''

''Of course it will be done.''  
The languid, self-assured tone roused in the Chieftain the desire to smash in the too-beautiful face. But he had watched this one kill; he was as fast as those fell-eyed White Fiends who still inspired dread and hate within Mens souls.

The Captain cleared his throat:  
''And the females , Lord? ''

''The females also.'' Vanimórë's had a vivid recollection of his twin, as small and waif-like, in tattered clothes...His will bore down upon the image, and banished it. He dared not dwell on that lest he go utterly mad.

''Who are these boys going to wed when they get older? They are * outcasts *, thou wouldst not permit them to wed thine own daughters or sisters. And so the boys will take the females to wife and form families, and eventually a Clan of their own. Find an older woman also, to teach them the arts they will need to know.''

The men made obeisance and bowed themselves out. Vanimórë poured from a pitcher of honeyed mead, and allowed himself a small smile.  
_I can train them, I can form them, they would be loyal, and grow and have lives, not be ignored to die in the cold..._

The scent of cooking fires stole through the tent flaps. He drained the mead and walked out into the cool evening air. The sky was sprinkled with stars towards the west, where an opalescence lingered from the setting of the Sun.

Fëapolda had explained that the first Elves had opened their eyes beside the waters of Cuiviénen and seen the stars in the west, thus they were called the People of the Stars. Here at least Vanimórë could see them. The Hells of Iron were below ground.

**Glittering with the dust of Elven gems and the Silmaril bound upon his brow, Eärendil took the high paths from the West, and rose in splendor. **

Struck perfectly still, Vanimórë's mind leaped at once to the Silmarili, for this new star shone with the same radiance; all through him quivered an intense, cold thrill.

_ A new Light? A new star... what does this mean? It is beautiful...it rises in the West...From.... Aman? _

Through the encampment he heard murmurs as people at the cooking fires looked up.

Melkor issued forth himself to see what this portended. His hand reached up as if he would rip the star down from where it shone, but a doubt stirred in his heart.  
It troubled also his Lieutenant, and he approached his lord and held converse with him. After he went swiftly to the Easterling tent-city to speak to his son. ~  



	5. They Would Take Everything

~ Silence descended upon the encampment. Through it, Vanimórë heard the thin wails of children hastily hushed by their elders. He did not move, waiting until the tent flaps were drawn aside by the petrified guards, and Sauron entered. Only then, almost negligently, did he come to his feet and bow.

Sauron could take other shapes, but as a man he was Elven-beautiful. Vanimórë looked past it, saw the one whom had given him to Morgoth and listened to his screams. Furious intelligence burned in the eyes which were paler than his own, but there was no doubt whence had come his deep purple.

Sauron moved forward in a hush of rich robes, and looked down at the map spread on the table.  
''Thou wilt go East.'' The tone was that of a master to his minion.

Vanimórë waited, but startlement shocked through him. Sauron saw it and faintly smiled.  
''Beleriand is at it's last breath. Soon the final resistance will fall. Middle-earth is wide, and the Lord has had no fortress of power further east since Utumno was unroofed. Thou art not needed here. We have armies enough to sweep across all Beleriand an hundred times over. Thou wilt go east, and find a suitable location for another citadel such as Angband.''

Vanimórë was nonplussed. There was truth in this, but he had always believed that Morgoth and Sauron's interests lay in the north and west of Endor since it was here the exiled Noldor and the Edain dwelt. Were they now turning their eyes elsewhere? Was this long war truly reaching it's end? He felt a sense of despair, and ruthlessly crushed it.

''Elves and Men spread west, did they not?'' Sauron said, mockingly. ''There are many still in the East. Middle-earth is far more than this one corner of it. In this thou canst be of use. After all, I see all thou doth see, do I not?''

Vanimórë kept his voice devoid of emotion. ''Thy will, Lord. When should I go?''

''As soon as thou canst prepare. Take some thousand with thee. If a suitable place is found, settle them, have them begin husbandry and mining.''  
Moving suddenly he turned, and jerked open the tent flap which closed off the small, private room from this outer one.  
''Thy tastes must be evolving, to desire them this young.''

The child still lay asleep, curled on the pallet, Vanimórë had all but forgotten him, he had been so silent. A sick dread sent tendrils through his veins.

''An orphan, Lord,'' he said indifferently. ''I have thought of something which will ensure such children are not wasted.''

''Wasted?'' Sauron laughed without humor. ''Men are made to be wasted. They sicken, they die. Ah – I see. A legion of warriors, trained from a young age, by _ thee,_ answerable to _ thee,_ loyal to _thee._''  
He swooped and lifted the boy, who jerked into wakefulness, wailed and kicked, his eyes searching out Vanimórë in desperation. That one had also had terrified him, at first, but then cast him a wink and fed him, allowed him to sleep in the warm.

Sauron's long fingers shifted and closed, breaking the vertebrae as easily as the child's fingers had crushed the pilfered strawberries. A gout of blood erupted from his mouth, then his head fell to one side. He hung like a small rag from Sauron's hand before the fingers loosed, as if dropping something worthless. The body looked very small as it crumpled on the floor.

Blood...it hazed Vanimórë's vision and pounded in his brain. He moved, one hand drawing the dagger at his belt. He felt it meet something which deflected it, heard the scrape of steel on steel, then a force flung him back as if he were struck in the midriff by a mace. It smashed the air from his lungs, the table splintered as his body impacted against it. A booted foot pressed against his throat.

"Slaves own _nothing_," Sauron chided, cold amusement threading the words. "They have their lives only at the whim of their Masters. _Thou_ ownest nothing but thy life, which thou doth cling to. Can it be, despite thy struggles, thou dost crave our Lord's attentions after all?" His eyes gleamed into the wrathful violet ones below. "Such passion _Slave._ And it is ours to use. Understand? Now swallow thy choler, and prepare to depart, or come back and take thine orders directly from Melkor. I am sure he would like to see thee before thy journey.'' The last words were silken.  
His foot lifted. Vanimórë gasped for breath, pushing himself to his feet, and gagging for air. He could not speak, did not need to; the rage burned from him like the heat from Melkor's forges.

''Oh, and Slave?'' Sauron spoke from the entrance. ''No matter how far thou may go, thou canst never break the chains which bind thee.'' He tapped his head. ''For thee, there is no freedom. Remember that.''

The flaps fell back behind him and Vanimórë spun, taking three strides into his bed place.  
For a moment as he knelt, he seemed to waver with the force of his emotions, as if he would fray into something unhuman, into fire and power. He could not weep. He could not ever again allow himself that luxury. He swallowed the hot gravel that seemed to have been poured into his throat, then took a coverlet and wrapped the small body within it, cocooning it.

_Everything they will take from me...Everything. _

He had had no designs on this boy, such a thought had never crossed his mind. He believed his idea of training the orphaned children to be a logical one, but he _had_ wanted them to be his, wanted something to care for. A tiny ember of warmth had roused in his emptiness. This dead child had been himself, had been Vanya, alone, uncared for, afraid...  
He ran his fingers back through his hair, closing his eyes and then came silently to his feet. They would allow him nothing to love. ~

~~~


	6. The First Taste Of Freedom

 

  
~ Vanimórë did not witness the cataclysmic battles of the War of Wrath, when the Powers of the West met Melkor and his hosts in Middle-earth.  
He and indeed all of the peoples of Endor did however experience its effects. Such a discharging of Power into the realm of Arda changed its shape and weather. The region of Beleriand was broken, and the Great Sea deluged all but the highest lands which were left as islands pricking the surface of the seething waters.   
  
Vanimórë had taken, as ordered, some thousand with him, mostly young men and their wives. He did not know how long he would be gone or if, once he had found some suitable location, he was to remain there. But there was a restlessness among the Men in those days, some spiritual presentiment perhaps of the titanic collision which would change Arda itself.

He was startled when he was approached by the youthful warriors. They were determined to leave, and came before him one after another wary but resolute.

"We go into the wild lands whence thine ancestors came," he advised them. "Be certain of this, for there will be no returning for any of thee."

But were he in their position would he not go? The beckoning call of even a brief freedom was a note played upon his heart.

The lands beyond the Blue Mountains were largely a mystery to him. The Easterlings themselves only had handed-down memories of crossing the wide lands. Such maps as Vanimórë possessed guessed only at distances and were largely blank. There was known to be a long range of great mountains further east which ran in a jagged spine north to south, effectively forming a barrier across the lands and joining with the eastern Ered Engrin. It was not feasible to cross them with a company on horseback. If those far mountains were indeed higher than the Ered Luin, it was possible they were snow capped all year; he therefore planned to follow their line southward, looking for passes.

Imbued with a desperate need to leave the overshadowing dread of the north and Angband, he had supplies strapped to ponies, not wagons. The vehicles were cumbersome, their wheels prone to breaking and were usually utilized only to carry goods between camps.

The first stage of that journey brought problems almost immediately, for the Ered Luin, curving eastward, drove themselves into the vast flanks of the Iron Mountains and a way had to be found through these. But there were passes, for the Blue Mountains were not so high and north of Lake Helevorn, where once Caranthir, fourth son of Fëanor had dwelt, Vanimórë crossed into Eriador.

The presence of Morgoth and Sauron was still tangible in his mind, and he became despairingly aware that distance did not mitigate this. But he had already learned not to hope, he could only accept and resist. Thus he turned his mind elsewhere and absorbed all he saw.

Beauty. It overwhelmed his senses. He opened himself to it: the dance of the yellowing silver birches, the patterns of frost on grass-blade, sunsets of cinder red and ice-yellow. He learned to immerse himself in the wonder and glory that was part, so Fëapolda, had said, of the Great Music. Melkor could not quench it. Henceforth, it became his defense, when faced with the unbearable, to remember such beauties. Even when winter came and all living things curled in upon themselves to sleep, there was a glory in the pale, high skies, a clean emptiness to the vistas. And he saw the return of lavish fecundity with the spring, as if the One himself had pronounced that winter was no true death, simply a time of rest.

He often went ahead to scout, for he was swifter than the Men and silent as mist. Leaving his mount he would run, and felt as if he could run forever until he became the very wind itself. But he could never flee from those who bound his mind, and he quenched such imaginings, disciplining himself to the responsibility of the journey.

The group he lead were armed and trained; he doubted that they would be attacked, but he did not take chances and never passed through woodlands, for Elves inhabited such places and one would not even see their shafts fly before they struck.  
The lands however, seemed empty of any folk. They moved in a south-easterly direction until, at the edge of eyesight, Vanimórë discerned the mist of mountains bounding the horizon. Each day they loomed closer, a seemingly impassible barrier, a wall across the world.

He reined in, calling a halt after scanning the land and beckoned Acadai to him. This was a young warrior, lean and tough, keen eyed and the first to ask to ride with him. He had won a lush, long haired beauty for his bride in a knife-fight not long before leaving the Easterling camp, and was known for both his blade-work and devotion to his wife. He hoped to establish his leadership, perhaps even his own clan in this venture and both respected and feared the strange warrior who lead them. He believed he could trust Vanimórë not to use his authority to call Liesha to his bed; he had taken no lovers since this journey began.

''Send some to hunt,'' Vanimórë said. ''This is a fair enough spot.''  
A river danced over a clear bed, not far away, and there was a wide view all around. Great holly trees flourished, their leaves glossy and ever-green, berries blood-red.

''I will scout ahead.'' As always, he added that if he did not return in seven risings of the sun, Acadai must lead the people on south, seeking for an end to this mountain chain.  
"And then do as thou wilt." he ended. "'Make thy new tribe strong, but do not return to the service of Melkor. He will give thee nothing, in the end."

The sun was westering as he ran lightly, untangling the scents in the wind, letting the land seep into his senses. His flesh felt as if it were brushed by an unseen hand, a prickling dance through nerves and veins. He turned his head looking west and it was then he saw the man.

So utterly still had he been sitting that he had blended in to the boulders and trees, legs crossed, hands folded across a pot-belly, sparse hair straggling across a rounded skull, and yet more sparsely on his chin. He wore but a hide loincloth, apparently impervious to the air which would chill dramatically as the sun dropped. Equally as still, Vanimórë regarded him, tales bleeding slowly into his mind; there was a strange race of Men the Orcs greatly feared, believing them to have powers of sorcery, as well as sight and smell more keen than others of the Atani. _Oghor-hai_ they called them. The Elves named them _Druedain._  
Certainly this motionless figure little resembled the Easterlings', nor did he seem to be Dwarf and was certainly no Elf. He was squat and even standing would not be tall. His brow was low, but under it Vanimórë saw keen, deep eyes which suddenly flashed at him as if the man was amused at his scrutiny.

This was a staring match which could go on quite some time, Vanimórë thought, and raised his hands in the universal gesture of peace. He knew the Easterling tongues, Sindarin, some Quenya and of course, Black Speech. He spoke in Sindarin.  
''Well met, friend. I thought these lands deserted.''

A strange sound broke from the seated man: a rich gurgling laughter so infectious that to Vanimórë it sounded like bubbling wine. It surprised him, causing an unexpected quiver of his mouth.

''No land is deserted. And those you lead make enough noise to be heard a day away. We have watched you for some time.''

Vanimórë was chagrined, for he had seen and heard nothing.  
''We are many and well armed, but we do not settle in thy land, we pass through only.''

"This is not my land, we but tarry a while. Take from it what you need, but thank the One, though all Elves know such, do they not? But then I have never seen an Elf leading the Eastern men before, nor heard of such." Again he chuckled,as if this were amusing.

''These are strange days.'' The violet eyes narrowed, seeking within. Instantly, he felt as if the stranger raised an internal barrier, feeling the intrusion. He could break it of course, but...

''You are no Elf...'' The man pushed himself to his feet on bowed legs, his movements oddly graceful. ''For all you look like one.'' Under deep brows, his eyes rose to meet the other's. ''You carry much pain.''

''Whom art thou?'' Vanimórë demanded, his emotions curling back into a protective ball against such insight.

''Five winters ago I lead my people from the woods of the western lands,'' the stranger replied. ''Those lands tremble now, they are unsafe, great things move, I feel it in my blood like the winds that bring the snow.''

Vanimórë stared at him. ''Thou doth sense these things, Man?''

''And so do you.'' He turned and loped silently away, then halted for a moment. ''We have some speech with the Stone-Makers children.'' He raised an arm, pointing east, toward three great mountains, peaked with snow. ''Great mansions they have mined under those peaks. But now they too are troubled and say the Stone-Maker is wroth. They have closed their doors, admitting only their kin who come from the west. They will not trouble you, but they will not help you either.''  
With that he vanished into a thicket of trees.

''What...?''

Nothing answered him but for the rustle of leaves in the sudden breeze. He turned west again, frowning, all his senses strained.

_ What is it that I feel? _ He could have reached out, asking Sauron, but he did not.  
_ The Stone-Makers children? Aulë? Feapolda said the Noldor learned much of Aulë in the Blessed Realm. They say he created the Dwarves. Was there not rumor of an ancient dwarf-kingdom in these mountains? _

He regarded the peaks for a long moment and the place where the man had vanished, then turned away and silently returned to the camp.

~~~

The sky to the north flared and rippled with lights that night, and the guards on watch woke the camp. It looked as if a monstrous storm were breaking far away. A mutter ran through the earth under their feet.

Vanimórë felt it as lightning shocking through his nerves.  
_ Power._ And of a kind he had never known, a scale undreamed of.

But whose power? Not Morgoth, he would recognized that, not Sauron's, it was too immense. He felt his blood beating through him, his heart slamming in heavy strokes.

_The Valar...? Do the Valar come to Middle-earth? _ he wondered, hope tempered always by control. _Let it be so. Please...but, no! I will go mad if I hope ! I cannot afford to hope. But what I feel is so strong... _

But he had no way of knowing, he could only guess as his voice rose to calm the uneasy people. He still had to lead them and he felt the unbroken link running between himself and Sauron. It was present, but unregarded for the moment as if his father's mind was bent on greater matters. ~

~~~


	7. When War Broke The North

  
~ ''We shall cross this river,'' Vanimórë said the next morning. ''And then encamp for a time. It is clear that some great matter passes in the west, I feel tremendous power which can only be from the Powers of the West.'' He saw the blenching, the hands go to weapons. ''If we remain, it is possible that we may learn more, for if some mighty war tears the lands where we dwelt, those fleeing from it might pass eastward.''

''My lord, it is known that you are linked, in your mind to Lord Sauron,'' Acadai spoke up respectfully. ''Will he not speak to you?''

''His mind is...occupied with other things, which is why I believe there _is_ war, and we must wait. I cannot enter his mind, I can only wait for him to speak into mine. And my orders from him have not been rescinded. Yet I wish to know, so here is a fertile land where we may rest. Dwarves mine the mountains yonder, but if we cross this river we will be outside their domain. If we settle here for a time, we may find them useful and thy forefathers know how fierce they are in battle, so let us treat them as friends.''

They crossed the river at a fording-place. In those days, before the felling of the trees for Númenorean ships, that region south of the Glanduin was one vast forest. The men were afraid of the immeasurable woods, for in their old tales, the bright-eyed White Fiends dwelt there, they who moved like ghosts and killed without warning. Vanimórë had now a responsibility to these folk that he would not shirk, but had he been alone he would have headed back north to discover for himself what transpired.

_Is this why I was sent east ? Did they know? Did they know that if the Powers came I would bend all my will to throw myself before them and beg them to release me from bondage? _

Day after day the rumor of the very land and the skies told a tale of vast collision; his blood shocked in fire through his veins.

_No...that cannot be. Who can truly know the mind of Melkor? But this I do know: he believed himself invincible. Surely the Valar could have freed me? But why would they? What am I but a Slave and a nothing? Why would the Valar deign to notice me? _

Skeins of geese and great flocks of birds began to pass south and east, and he saw more wild creatures, as if they were migrating out of season. This troubled him the more, for although wars displaced many things, natural life usually lived around it and adapted.

Broken images flashed in his mind: vast armies, hordes of orcs and Men, trolls and misshapen beasts clashed with forces of flaming eyed beings. Were they real, fragments of what passed in Sauron's own mind? His father did not speak to him. He had no way of knowing.  
Frequently he left the encampment and spent days running north, only to halt. He climbed the great mountain above the dwarf-hold. In the white silence his booted feet left no print in the snow. The air was thin and diamond-sharp. He wondered if he threw himself down that great northern precipice would he smash his body, would his soul flee its imprisoning flesh... and then what? The Void...his soul existing in nothing, to be tormented by Melkor forever...

The young men sired children, grew old and died. Their sons grew and became hunters and warriors, and the women tended the land where they had settled. Their lifestyle was both nomadic and pastoral and none troubled them, but in that time people fleeing east did indeed pass through and were taken in. From their tales Vanimórë began to build a picture in his mind of what had taken place far in the north.

He dreamed of Morgoth's hosts filling Anfauglith, and coming against them were legions of Gods and Elves. Battles ensued which lasted for years, as Angband was emptied. Many of the Mortal vassals of the Dark Lord died, others fled.

As if he could see with the eyes of the Great Eagles, Vanimórë spent more and more days atop the white mountain, staring north and west. Even his sight could not truly discern anything, but that one day a brilliant light blazing brighter than the Sun rose in the west, and a cloud of night came upon it, which at last fell out of his vision, leaving the Light alone and triumphant. Then the shock came and he felt it though the bones of the earth.

The world seemed to hold its breath, then the air boomed and snow fumed past Vanimórë. He was carried with it, pelted by it, smashed against a boulder and held there as the avalanche roared past him.

Silence came at last, and he pulled himself carefully out. The great majority of the snow had thundered down thousands of feet below him, blanketing him with only a light covering. Wincing at cracked ribs, he looked up. The sky seemed to flicker from east to west, north to south with a great, preternatural shining.

Slowly, cursing, he made his way down, while in Angband, Melkor was thrown down and bound with the chain Angainor. The the Silmarils were taken from the Iron Crown, which was beaten into a collar for his neck.  
Vanimórë did not know this until long after but he felt a weight leave him. Something that had pressed on his mind and his spirit since his birth had been removed.

_He is...beaten...I feel it. No, this is not my own desires, I can feel it...! _

Yet Sauron's link in his mind remained, sitting there dormant. Vanimórë was puzzled, but despite his ribs and bruises he felt, for the first time in his life, a fierce and overwhelming joy.

Sauron had surrendered himself to Eonwë, herald of the Valar, and sued for pardon but, aware that his offenses could not be so lightly forgiven he escaped. From Aman he could not return and he had no intention of being imprisoned countless ages as Melkor had been. During the War and for some time after, he was intent on his own continued freedom and survival, His son could wait. He could never escape. ~

~~~


	8. Son Or Slave?

  
~ Sauron, the greatest Power now in Middle-earth, vanished for a thousand years. At that time his name was not known to those Elves who remained; it was only as his power grew that the wise, such as Galadriel perceived that there was one motivating mind of evil in existance still. It was not known where, in those centuries, Sauron had dwelt, before he fortified Mordor.

But Vanimórë knew.

Middle-earth was vast, a fact that could not truly be grasped unless one were of the Ainur or a Great Eagle who might soar and see the endless leagues unfurling under them.

Beyond the Towers of Mist and the great forest of the Greenwood, the lands rolled into unguessable distances, and swept south into the immensity of the Harad, with its burning deserts, stark mountains, jungles and savanna's. There were even lands beyond, which Númenorean explorers would carry tales of: a continent in the south, across the Straits of the World; the Dark Lands, and furthest eastward the heat-seared Burnt Lands of the Sun.

Not all Men had made the westward journey into Beleriand; only the Edain and some of the so-called Swarthy Men had taken that path. Many of the Wise of the Eldar had descried a darkness in their past, but of this the loremasters of Men would not speak. Only some, like Finrod of Nargothrond, had learned or guessed the Shadow in their past.

''_ Therefore I say to you, ... what did ye do, ye Men, long ago in the dark? How did ye anger Eru? _'' **

It became clear that Men believed that Death was not a gift to them, but a curse for some misdeed in the youth of their race. Vanimórë, who spent much time among Men, also heard the legend.

Men awoke in Hildorien and they, unlike the Elves, were not summoned by the Valar to Aman. Their fate was to be different.

The legend ran in many tribes and peoples, like water underground, that the Valar had not summoned them because Eru himself had spoken to them . He had told them that they would be the instruments of the healing of Arda Marred, but that they must first be as children, who learn to walk and talk, and not to desire more knowledge than was given to them. But – it was said – Men were impatient and wished to learn swiftly, and they asked the Voice for guidance . But another Voice answered them and then appeared to them in a guise both fair and mighty, and sympathized with their plight, telling them that they must not heed the first Voice who would leave them to languish and struggle; that He alone would be their teacher and God.

And learn they did, swiftly and eagerly but it was not without price, and the Voice demanded that they build a temple and sacrifice to Him.

And so Men gave offerings in blood to a God who demanded more and more and gave less and less, and the Men became a bloody people who worshiped the dark.  
Yet some among them remembered the first Voice, and knew that they should never have opened their ears to this terrible Power of cruelty and domination. These fled westward with their families and came at last into Beleriand in a vain attempt to leave behind those terrors, only to find that they walked into the shadow of that dread Power again; but at least they might now battle against it.  
But not all had left their roots, and among these were the Easterlings and other tribes who spread south into the Harad. They adhered to the worship of the Dark but did not become embroiled in the wars of Beleriand. These people, when Sauron came among them, bowed before him as the Servant of their God.

Vanimórë was not long to experience freedom, and often he wondered if such tastes of it as he was to have only, in the end, deepened the hatred of his slavery.  
And there was one time on which was to hinge all his later life and ultimately his destiny – the first time he met his father after the War of Wrath.

~~~

The great tent was scented by a pinch of incense, and braziers fashioned as the necks and heads of dragons sent flames rippling over the walls. The man who had announced his arrival ducked out and the flap closed. Sauron looked up from the great carven chair. His son bowed.

''Thou art laggardly.''  
White hair spilled down Sauron's back, caught back in intricate braids over his skull. His eyes were a shade lighter than his sons, pale lavender, clear as glass.

''Excuse me, my Lord but I know not these lands.'' 

Vanimórë had been in the south when the summons came. He had journeyed across steppes and forest and cold desert, fought nomadic tribesmen, and winter had come down to meet him, driving granules of snow tiny and hard as sand across a land of silver birch and undulating plain. Ice was melting on his cloak, droplets clinging to his hair. His clothes, durable leather and doeskin showed the stains of travel.

Sauron gestured to a steaming pot. ''Pour wine.''

Vanimórë went to the long trestle table and filled two cups. He said, as he set down the pitcher: ''So He is gone.''

He heard a breath hiss from his father's lips.  
''Yes, He is gone.''

A smile which Vanimórë could not – would not – hide came. ''I felt it.''

''Be silent.'' It was a snap. "Drink." 

The hot wine was comforting.

''But I remain and I am still His. I suppose.''

At those words Vanimórë set down the empty cup.  
''My lord, He wanted to annihilate, a wasteland for a world if he could not control it. That does not marry with what I know of thee. '

The lavender eyes narrowed. ''Thou knowest me not at all." He sounded a little amused. "But it is true our ideal's diverged somewhat. I am a Maia of Aulë, I make.''

''So what wouldst thou have of me?'' Vanimórë's voice was toneless.

''More than thy damned martyred servitude. There are things thou canst not fight. Look at me.'' He took the hard chin in his hand. ''We can do much together.'' A flame burned in the center of the pale eyes. ''Thou art my son.''

''Whom thou didst hand to Melkor like some delicacy.'' The words bit like the whine of the wind outside the pavilion.

''Thou art not the only one who ever suffered his attentions,'' Sauron said. ''I was His as thou wert His. And thou art indeed a delicacy.''

''I am not His any longer.''

"Mine then?'' The white teeth gleamed. ''What shall we do, my beautiful darkness? There is a world to rule and bring order to. No more rape, no more slavery, we can work together.''

''Thou wilt not share power,'' Vanimórë whispered. _"I know thee."_

''Other things then.'' Long fingered hands delved into his damp hair, he felt his cloak fall, was drawn against his fathers body. Lips touched his neck and he let his head fall back, because in this touch there was no pain.

His tunic came off, his breeches, his boots, he felt hot, firm muscle against his own, and arched toward the touches which burned and roused and were not cruel.

''I made thee so beautiful,'' Sauron whispered, entering him, and felt the response. Vanimórë was desperate to be loved, and felt no shame in submitting to his own father if by that he would receive it.  
_I know thee so well, my son._

Vanimórë was too braced against pain to feel overwhelming pleasure, but there was the intimation that he could feel it, that Sauron would give it to him. He shuddered a little with undischarged need.

''So what will it be, Vanimórë?'' Fingers ran down his spine. ''I will give thee command of mine armies, thou wilt have power, cities under thy hand, riches, all that thou dost desire. Everything.''

It hung there like a round, rich fruit, waiting for his hands to pluck and taste it. He lifted his head. He thought of Angband...

~~

_''Father, help me!'' A hand like iron dragged back his hair, the metal-and-fire scent of Morgoth was all around him, the burning hand gripping the taut swell of his buttocks.  
His feet went out from under him and he flung out his hands to arrest his fall. Even as he pushed himself to his knees, his hips were grasped and he was pulled back. He looked up by way of tooled leather boots, a rich dark robe. His father's face was impervious as the stone of the throne-hall, only his eyes showed a curious, intrigued lust . _

''Father, please!" _And then his world detonated into red agony. _

~~~

Something went out of him, there in the tent, in the gusting wind; the small, newly formed flame of hope flickered and died.  
''Thou didst give me to Melkor.'' His punch took Sauron straight across his jaw, whipping his head sideways. "No,_father._"  
A thin rill of blood trailed down the side of his mouth as he slowly turned his head back, and only Melkor could have recognized the look in his eyes.

''Thou hast chosen. So be it.''

~~~

Melkor had wanted nothing but destruction; Sauron desired absolute rule over the World, but he required a land, and long searched for one that would suit his purpose, defensible and enclosed. Such a place was only brought into being by the cataclysm of the War of Wrath. It had not existed before.  
It might have been one last malicious design of Melkor's, for it was wholly suited for the seat of the Dark Lord, being surrounded by mountains on three sides. There was one great gap to the east which opened onto lands whose people worshiped Melkor. And it boasted one feature which made it utterly condign for Sauron's purposes as a Maia, once, of Aulë: a volcanic mountain.

_ Mordor.~ _

~~~

  


  


  
Chapter End Notes:   


  


** Atrabeth Finrod ah Andreth

  



	9. Thou Art Nothing

  
~ How much can a man, even the son of a Maia, take before he breaks?

''Does that make thee feel wise, Slave? As if somehow thou dost outwit me by dabbling in trade like a merchant?"

Sauron seized his son by the neck of his tunic and dragged him forward.  
"Dost thou think I do not see thy games? Parading as if you were something, instead of a slave. I have heard of what they name thee. Dark Prince." He splashed acid over the title. "Like that, dost thou?"

''I need wealth, my Lord,'' the reply was hammered flat. ''For my weapons, armor, horses, to train, to travel, to live.''

''To live? Thou doth exist to _serve_ me.''

"And so I do, and excellently well."

Vanimórë did indeed serve excellently, Sauron admitted to himself. He was also very expensive, and Sauron was not truly angered by his accumulation of riches. For over a thousand years he had tested his son, forging him as a weapon is forged. The only weak rivet Sauron had discovered was that he appeared to desire to be..._needed._

''Yes,'' he said, and allowed his voice to slip down into velvet. ''Thou hast done well. A reward is in order, I think.''

He saw Vanimórë's the jaw muscles clench; his son knew by now what it portended when Sauron addressed him in that intimate tone. The explosion of abhorrence was violent and vivid in his eyes, and revulsion blazed into the aether like an aura.

The struggle aroused Sauron. His son would fight mentally and physically to a standstill like a blown war-horse. His rage was magnificent to behold, and it was far more satisfying than to ride a broken mount.

''It is permitted to cry, sweet son,'' he whispered after, drawing the sweat-damp black hair back. ''I will comfort thee.''

A shudder passed through the body that blossomed with the swift-flowering, swift-fading bruises. A voiceless protest echoed through the aether – yet another layer uncovered.

''If thou didst have a son? Thou wouldst...love him?'' Sauron laughed. ''Thou canst not father children, Slave. Oh, did Melkor never tell thee thou art infertile? And what if thou didst, how long would thee keep thy hands from something so innocent? Because I _know_ how much thou doth yearn for purity.'' He watched carefully as a cat on a sunlit wall, and then said brutally: ''Thou art nothing. Sterile as a mule. Now get hence.'' One shoulder hit the floor hard as Vanimórë was hurled down. ''Get out.''

Those in the ante-chamber fell silent as the double doors opened. There was interrogative curiosity and lust in their eyes as Vanimórë was forced to run the gauntlet of their appraisal. Passing through them, disheveled, bloody and naked, he might indeed look a like a thrall, but those more familiar with the Dark Tower knew better. He was Sauron's personal slave, a warrior deadly to cross, and he walked like a panther, all grace and defiant power, through corridors and chambers, down stairs until he reached the dubious refuge of his own rooms. Even there, he could not find release, for Sauron knew his thoughts, and to know that his son wept would be insupportable. All Vanimórë could do was wash himself fastidiously in scented water, his mind beating outward with utmost contempt.

_I will not break for thee! _ He knew his silent thought was strained like a harp-string about to snap, wild, with hatred. _ I **vow** this! I will never break for thee! _

Rich, strong wine melted through the swollen dryness of his throat; he thrust long fingers into his wet hair.

_I knew I could father no child, or surely I would have by now. But I thought, hoped – fool! Have I not learned never to hope? – that since Elves beget children only in times of peace, that I did not sire them because when has my life ever been one of peace? _

He stretched out on his side, let his lashes drop over his eyes as if to veil the pain even from the stone walls.

_ Is he right? Would I abuse as I have been abused? No! I am not my father. I am not Melkor. I have never defiled any child. I never will. **Never.** _

His mind turned inward and opened to loveliness. It was the only escape there was.

Sauron, far above in the tower smiled.  
_I certainly hope nothing breaks thee, Vanimórë. I have spent so much time fashioning thee, after all._ ~

~~~


	10. Blood In Eregion

~ Sixteen hundred years after the dawn of the Second Age, Sauron forged the One Ring in the Sammath Naur, the Fire Chambers of Orodruin.

in the year 1200, Sauron approached the Elves, calling himself Annatar, a Maia formerly in the service of Aulë. He said that he desired to help them attain the mastery and skills they would have reached in Aman, and was sympathetic to those whom had chosen to remain in Middle-earth.

The High King Gil-galad would not receive him in Lindon, and had him escorted to the borders of his realm. In Eregion, Galadriel, wisest of the Eldar whom remained in Endor, mistrusted him. But in an echo of the Noldor hearkening to Melkor in Valinor, Celebrimbor and the Gwaith-i-Mírdain were eager to learn all Annatar might teach. And he learned from them also; more than they knew.

But in his attempt to bring the Elves under his control he failed at the last. Celebrimbor crafted the Three Rings alone, without Annatar's aid, and therefore his hand and mind never influenced them. But when Sauron put on his One Ring to bring the Three under his control, the Elves became aware of Annatar's true nature.

In the years after Sauron gathered his armies and marched to make war upon the Elves.

This was the beginning of the Black Years, called by the Elves the Days of Flight, for many left Middle-earth and the time when the dominion of Sauron truly began.

It was in the wars of Eregion, that Vanimórë first fought against the Elves.

After the War of Wrath, he had lead his people southward past the Towers of Mist and through the great gap between them and the White Mountains. Where this snowy range failed, he found a dark mountain wall fronting their march and turned south again, following a great river which disgorged into a mighty delta.  
They entered a land inhabited by fierce tribes, where the sun leached moisture from the ground, and only palm-fringed oases broke the panorama of dune and febrile rock.  
The men who dwelt there were not pleased to see an incursion into their territories, but after bloody battle, those who survived came to swear their allegiance to Vanimórë, and the Easterlings were accepted into that tribe.

In time, Acadai's great grandson became the chieftain of the tribe called the White Wolves. They were one of the fiercest of the desert peoples, loyal to Vanimórë rather than Sauron. It was they who had first titled him _ Dark Prince,_ and they whom he later lead to the wars of Eregion.

This was the first time Vanimórë had seen a host of Elves assembled for battle, and it well nigh broke his heart. He himself fought in a full-face black helm, and was just one of Sauron's captains, anonymous in every way save for his height and the way he fought. He had adapted to many different styles over the centuries, the twin scimitars being his weapons of choice, and with them he was forced to kill his own kin

The sorrow threatened to unman him. So magnificent did the Elves appear to him, accoutered for battle, their rippling banners and long hair caught by the wind, their faces stern as hunting hawks, and their wild, brilliant eyes. Yet the forces Sauron had gathered over the years out of the measureless east and south were vast, and the host of the Elves was not gathered in one place and under one leader; Some were in Lindon with the high king, others in Eregion and Eriador, lead by such as Elrond Peredhel, Celeborn of Doriath and Amroth of Lórinand.

***

''Curse him to the Everlasting Dark.'' Sauron's voice clapped like thunder over the camp beyond ruined Ost-in-Edhil as he strode from the great tent. His eyes passed over his captains who drew together, waiting for the whip of his displeasure to fall on them. All save one. Sauron beckoned him.

''My lord?''

''Get the information from him, Captain.''

''I am a warrior, not a torturer, my lord.''  
Pain spiked through Vanimórë's body as he was compelled through the flaps of the tent.

_Thou art whatever I deem thee to be, slave, plaything, torturer. _ The whisper was cold power in his mind.

Celebrimbor lay manacled to a bench. He was naked, and his long raven hair was clotted with blood. Sauron had not stinted in his persuasions.

** Break him. **

_No!_

_Shall I simply rape him until he tells me? _

Vanimórë wrenched off his helm, tugged free his gauntlets, and leaned over the tormented man. His heart backed into his throat, almost choking him.

_They were friends once..._

He felt his father's gaze on him curious and, unusually for him, furious. In a movement quicker than sight Vanimórë drew his dagger from its thigh-sheath and plunged it into Celebrimbor's heart. Then he turned. There was brittle satisfaction in his eyes.  
"Is that not what thou didst want, my Lord?"

At times, Sauron's anger with him seemed tinged with amusement.  


Not this time.

  
And still, it was worth it. 

  
~~~

War had flamed through the beautiful streets and mansions of Ost-in-Edhil, and Vanimórë had been at the forefront. In any battle against Elves he was as swift and as deadly, but he fought without passion, each movement a reflex gained over many long years. Each time he slew he felt the waste, the pain of destroying those whose blood ran in his own veins. He saw fire sweep buildings which were like jewels of marble and carven stone, the blood running on the paved streets and steps and darkening the lake called Estelin, staining the water.

In black rage, Sauron turned his army on Elrond's force. The Peredhel might have been overwhelmed, save that Sauron's army was suddenly fallen upon from the rear by the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm with mattocks and axes, and a force of Elves from Lorinand. Turning from his pursuit of Elrond, Sauron drove the Dwarves and Elves back, but the gate of Khazad-dûm was closed against him.

Believing that in Lindon lay his greatest chance of claiming the Three Rings, Sauron gathered his forces and march west. He swept across Eriador with sword and destruction, investing almost all of it, save Imladris, in the three years before his plans began to go awry.

For Sauron had forgotten, or not considered, one thing: Númenor, and the friendship between that great island nation and Gil-galad.

***

''Thou may go to thy duties now.'' Sauron laughed softly to see Vanimórë's eyes so wild, so helpless.

Disheveled hair fell forward as Vanimórë bowed, drawing his tunic over the fresh marks on his back. They would fade to nothing as all his scars did. The two guards at the tent's entrance looked after him as he went, the long, graceful stride denying pain. He called for his horse, mounted and rode from the sprawling encampment. Sauron would know, but would only smile. Vanimórë must always return, as a hound to its master's whistle.

He passed fires and feast, fighting and mating, heard the clang of forges, before the sounds faded behind him. Within a day some of this army would be marching west, toward Gil-galad's Lindon.

Ahead, he saw a glint and heard a ring of weapons as the sentries heard his coming.

''I will pass,'' he snapped, and they drew aside.

''The Lord's Slave,'' snickered one under his breath.

''I would not say that too loud," growled the other. "He is favored.'' They watched the galloping horse vanish into the night.

''Favored." The man spat, laughing nervously.

The moon rode high before Vanimórë reined in, drawn by the murmur of water. He unbuckled a saddlebag, drew fresh breeches and a black tunic from them before testing the night with his senses, and stripping off armor and clothes.

The water foamed over him, stinging in cuts and soothing abrasions, drawing cleansing fingers through his hair, although no water could wash away what he was.  
As he stamped into his boots he thought, as he had so often, of riding on to Lindon, to join the High King, but who was he fooling? He was a slave and more. He had tried to walk away many times and always returned. His leash might be a long one, sending him far into the east and south, but it was always ready to be snapped tight.

The tunic smelled of orris root and sandalwood. For all his severe garb, in faraway cities he owned villas and slaves and could live as a King. None of it mattered, for the lowest thrall of the Harad had more freedom than he, at least to choose death, when life became intolerable.

He drew a wineskin from the saddle and unstoppered it, raising it and drinking, then stopped as he heard a whisper out of the night.

''Friend? Here. Canst thou help us?"

He spun around as two shadows detached themselves from the trees. Elves. One supported another, and he saw that they were a man and woman, who leaned against her companion. Her hand was cupped over a rounded belly. He lowered the wineskin and moved forward.  
''Thou must leave this place,'' he told them. ''The army is too close.''

''We know, but my wife is with child. Canst thou help us?''

Within his mind, Vanimórë laughed bitterly.

_ Can I help them? I can kill them to save them the horror that will come on them when the army breaks camp. One way or another they will be found. In war there are always excesses; in my father's wars, they are encouraged, as a warning to others. _

His hands rose a little towards the twins hilts of his scimitars at his back, and the woman stared at him.

_They believe me one of them, yet no Elf would own kinship with me if they knew who I was. I would be as reviled as my father, my name a curse in the darkness._

''The army is moving within hours,'' he said. ''some will remain here, or head north, the others go toward Lindon. Thou canst not outrun them. Better if thou wert to end thy lives now.'' He turned away.

He heard the woman gasp, and her husband exclaimed: ''Thou dost surely jest. I pray thee, take Hisaelwen, on thy horse. She can ride. Take her to safety at least.''

''No, Nirorn," the woman protested. "We have discussed this. I will not leave thee.''

Vanimore cast up his eyes. ''Save thy hand-wringing. It is too late. Why art thou so damned close to Sauron's army?''

''We only found one horse, and it was lame,'' Nirorn said angrily. "And Hisaelwen cannot move fast, as thou must see."

Vanimore shook his head, then swore suddenly and violently.  
''Take the horse! Go on, take him. Ride north to the army of Elrond.'' He pointed into the night. ''There is no time to waste. Mount up, I will help the lady.''

In eager relief, the man mounted, and reached down as his wife was gently lifted up to him.

''What of thee, warrior?'' the lady asked.

''I can make shift for myself.'' Vanimórë slapped the horses rump as it took off under the now sinking moon, its hoof-beats swallowed by the night.  
Folding his arms he watched them vanish, and then he began to laugh.  
''Thy slave I am, father,'' he murmured. ''Yet unless thou wouldst utterly break my mind, and thereby render me useless to thee, I _will_ essay to defy thee.''

***

All the forces gathered by the Elves gave way before Sauron, who invested Eriador, then marched west to take Lindon where Gil-galad was defending his realm at the line of the River Lhûn. And it was then, when Vanimórë believed that all would fall before the Dark Lord, that the great armament of Númenor hit the shores.

It was a sight that caused even the most violent hearts to quail. The taste of victory in his mouth, Sauron — who feared the might of Númenor — had believed that they were not coming to the aid of the Elves. Political infighting, weather or some other reason had kept them away as he laid waste to Eriador. But Númenor was only delayed, and now it discharged its power before the army of the Dark Lord.

Vanimórë could almost have laughed aloud as the horizon became blanketed by legions of warriors whose armor glittered in the light; tall Men with grey eyes and bright swords, the most like to the Eldar of all the Secondborn.

''Tell me how we fight this,'' Sauron demanded of his son. ''Tell me, _warrior, captain._ How?''

''So sorry, Lord, thou canst not.'' Glee was fierce in Vanimórë's mind, though his words were flat. ''We are outmatched. They are better armed, stronger, fresh, and their number is many times greater than our own. Thou couldst surrender,'' he offered.

''Thou would wish me to, wouldst thou not? So that thou might go bleating to Gil-galad of whom thou art, thinking he would pity thee, embrace you as kin long sundered? They would only have to look at thee to see what thou art."

Which was, Vanimórë thought, true.

The fear infected the forces of Sauron. Many retreated, countermanding their orders, and were swept south. Two major defeats followed, at Sarn Ford and Tharbad, for the Númenorean admiral Ciryatur, had sent part of his fleet south from the Gulf of Lhûn, to the port of Lond Daer. Thus were Sauron's forces caught and utterly routed, he himself escaping with only a few bodyguards, which included his son. Vanimórë had long relinquished prayer, but he could not help longing that they might be captured.

_But what then? If thou wert captured and not slain? No, he is right in what he says, if in naught else. The Elves would despise me. I have no place among them. As he said long ago, for me, there is no freedom. _

Sauron's hatred lay on the Númenoreans ever after, and the expression on his face when he realized that victory was as fickle as a night-moth was one Vanimórë was prepared to treasure for a very long time. ~

~~~


	11. I Have Warned Thee, Khamûl

  
~ In the years after Sauron's defeat, he withdrew into Mordor.  
Ever he brooded on the Númenoreans, whose island realm thrived and who began more frequent voyages to the shores of Middle-earth. In Lindon, Gil-galad ruled and Elrond Eärendilion founded the refuge of Imladris, whence the survivors of Ost-in-Edhil removed; there were kingdoms of Elves in the mighty forest of Greenwood and Lórinand. Sauron's thoughts might reach westward, but his hand did not. He knew that any further war against the Elves would be met by not only the forces of the High King, but also military aid from Númenor.

While that nation's puissance waxed, Sauron clenched his fist on the south and east of the world. It was in this time the Nazgûl came into being, corrupted by promises of power and immortality through the Nine Rings. Three of them were great Lords of Westernessë, for those people were ardent explorers. Banned from sailing to Aman, they set their faces and energies eastward and journeyed into strange waters, leaving legends in their wakes. But they came mostly to the north, having friendship with the Elves, and as they became more proud, more arrogant, not a few traveled inland, desiring to see the infamous Black Land, fenced by its mountains.

The first of the Nazgul was also the greatest, highest in blood, greatest in strength, he whom would become the Witchking. Sooner or later according to their native resolution, the Rings consumed the men utterly, taking them into a world held between life and death. They were the most loyal, most feared servants of Sauron.  
The second in rank to the Witchking was named the Black Easterling, Khamûl. When a young man, he had been an outcast from his tribe and become a paid knife, until one fratricidal tribal war had brought him to the attention of the one known as the Dark Prince, and through him to Sauron's eye and mind.

Such bloody wars for ascendancy were not uncommon among the Easterlings and little Sauron cared who ruled so long as all owed him allegiance. But it was Vanimórë who best knew these peoples, and involved himself with their power struggles.

~~~

The Chieftain and his followers were killed or taken prisoner to swear fealty to his son. Fermented mares' milk was being enjoyed around the camp fires of the victors.

The battle had been observed by Vanimórë and his picked guards, and when it was over he rode into the camp. His warriors, chosen as youths and trained by him alone, were a mixture of Variag, Haradhan and Easterling blood, all in black with the Red Eye, Sauron's insignia, emblazoned on their ebony surcoats. Only the leader wore unrelieved black, but he could not be mistaken. Whatever he was rumored to be and whatever his status, he spoke for the Great Lord Sauron, and was close to him. All believed that when the Dark Prince came among them, Sauron saw through his eyes. They were not wholly wrong. Sauron did not see out of Vanimore's eyes in actuality, but he could extricate knowledge from his sons mind.

Laughing with a group of men sitting apart, since they were mercenaries, and with the sweet promises of one of the camp-women in his ears, Khamûl blearily saw a pair of black boots enter his vision. They were good boots, he thought, benignly, in a haze of alcohol, very good boots, the sort he would like to wear when he had earned enough coin. His eyes followed them up, over soft leather breeches and a coat of black mail to a face stern and hard as stone, in which shone a pair of slightly up-tilted purple eyes.

Strange, thought Khamûl with a hiccough, that the fall of thick black hair did not lend any hint of effeminacy to this man; his height and build banished any inclination to label him feminine. And then, as he realized who this must be, Khamûl's mouth dropped open. He flung himself to his knees.

''I saw thee fight today.'' The voice was smooth and deep. ''I believe I could use thee.''

"Thank you, Lord," Khamûl was suddenly – and regrettably – sober.

''Of course, it would mean thee travelling to Mordor.''  
Was there, or was there not, a hint of humor in the tone?

''Ah, Lord, I am not worthy of such honor!''

No-one desired to go to Mordor. The very thought caused cold sweat to prickle over Khamûl's flesh. He felt those strange eyes boring into him, and wondered if his thoughts were being read. His life so far had been violent and hard, but Mordor.... as well walk into the Dark.  
Born into a low caste, son of a poor man, his future would have been to serve the tribe. He listened to the talk, saw them tend their weapons and mounts, and yearned to be as they. But his father made tents and that would also be his lot.

Thus he had run away – effectively making himself Outcast – to seek his own fortune, vowing he would bring pride to his ancestors and become a fighter of renown. One day would return and force the tribe to accept him.

He had first run across a group whom were also Outcasts, men who were outside the Clan Laws, and thus might be hunted with impunity. The leader had used him as a slave, to cook and clean tack, prepare food and see to the horses, but an older man bearing the tattoos which showed he had once been a clan-warrior, had taught him how to defend himself and gifted him with a knife. When he died in a skirmish, the young man, by that time a skilled fighter, had taken his place.

It was a brutal life and often a short one, but the Easterlings, for whom death was the final Dark, had developed an almost defiant courage in the face of it. They respected bravery. It was the custom for every warrior to tattoo himself when he had killed a man cleanly in battle and Khamûl sported many of these markings. Each was different, each was an honor to the one who had died, showing they were not forgotten. They were a more complex people than the more enlightened Númenoreans might believe. But courage was one thing, suicide was another. Khamûl had plans. Those plans did not include going to Mordor. He had been promised pay for his services in this war and meant to take it to the Great Gathering, held each spring. There, for a period of fifteen days all tribal animosities were suspended, while horses, livestock, wives and slaves were bought and sold.

He heard the soft laughter above him.  
''Thine ambitions are far too small. Mordor has spoken. _He_ has other plans for thee.''

In a series of bloody, merciless battles which swept across the steppes leaving encampments a waste of death-wheels and feeding vultures, Khamûl became the Clan Chief of the Easterlings. He earned the title ''Black'' for his mercilessness in conquest and it was that which Sauron had seen, the ambition and ruthlessness which could be used to serve Mordor. It was Vanimórë who advised that the bickering tribes of the east should come under the rule of one leader, that order be created out of chaos.

Vanimórë liked order. In some ways he was very much his father's son.

In time, feeling old age and sickness creeping upon him, Khamûl reached out and grasped the Ring offered to him.

''Thou canst not comprehend,'' Vanimore had said to him in the great tent. ''Better death than what this will give thee.''

''That is easy for one who does not die to say, lord.''  
Khamûl's weathered face was taut, the skin pulling back over bones from the wasting disease. He had sickened, his body failing him while his mind remained strong, but Vanimórë never changed; not one hair-thin line marked that beautiful face.

''My orders are to give thee this. But I will tell thee, Khamûl, that thou wilt look back on this day and wish thou hadst drawn back thy hand and surrendered to natural death.''

''I will not regret immortality, Lord.'' The Chieftain's voice trembled with eagerness. He reached out and grasped the ring.

''Thou wilt regret it,'' Promised Sauron's son with a pitying smile. ''And I...I will undoubtedly say that I warned thee.''

Khamûl did indeed come to regret his choice, but he also believed that the Slave of Sauron suffered a worse fate than his own. In Mordor he witnessed the one he had known as a warrior of breathtaking skill, a leader among leaders, abused and degraded by the Dark Lord's servants, by great orcs and fell-wolves.  
The Easterling could not comprehend how he survived, why he did not just kill himself. He thought he had seen everything; his rise to power had left hills of skulls in his wake, he had watched men and women die in agony, but such things were inseparable from warfare. Men always died. Vanimórë healed flawlessly only to be tormented afresh.

''Why dost thou not end thy life?'' he asked once, while the ring's power slowly drew him into the wraith world. ''I know thy courage, Lord. Any of my people would embrace death on their knife, rather than endure such as thou dost.''

''What awaits me beyond the doors of death is worse than this,'' Vanimórë had replied with a glittering smile, hard as diamond. ''There is naught else for me, just as there is...now, nothing else for thee.'' And he had risen with defiant panache, as bruises mottled yellow and mauve over his face and form, and blood ran in thin streaks across his flesh.  
And in his eyes Khamûl could see only an adamantine refusal to be conquered. ~

  


** Chapter End Notes: **

  


Easterlings, in these writings, refer to any people living east of Rhovannion, or Mordor, not Variags of Khand.

  



	12. The Darkness Has Its Own Light

**3261 Second Age.**

~ He did not know where he wandered in his madness and sorrow, knew not what events transpired on Middle-earth. And he did not know that Sauron's reach had become so long, until it was far, far too late... ~

~~~

...He came after a long time of darkness.  
Maglor had fought until almost smothered, grappled, pinned to the bloody ground, and brought here, bound like a beast.

When he had seen the titanic walls and spikes of Barad Dur rising into the fume-red sky, black upon grey, dread nailed itself into his soul. He felt battered by the force of it, the huge, iron-black slabs of windowless stone lightless, unyielding, the fortress of a Power...like Angband. This was not Angband was it? Sometimes he was not sure when he was; the past was more alive to him than the present.

He was pushed into a dank room and left in silence like the bottom of a grave. There was an abyss before him and he was falling...

He knew.

_ This happened to Maedhros...And there is no Fingon to rescue me. I am lost. _

And at that moment he was there, and Maglor felt him began to rip open the defenses of his mind. He fought against it, appalled at the _strength_ that contemptuously pushed aside his will. He was nothing in this fortress of the Dark. He would be smashed on the black anvil of Sauron's hate.

_He would not! _

He had vowed, in the fetid darkness of his dungeon, to utter no plea.

Sauron had existed before Time; the long Ages had refined him, and he never forgot. This Elf, relict of a ruined House, harrowed with sorrow and madness was hated and beautiful, and desired.  
Facing that hate and pitiless power, Maglor saw that he was fair and withal, like some beautifully crafted tomb, under it lay depths he did not dare to plumb.  
His father would have.  
And he raised his head, magnificent in his courage and scorn, beautiful as a fire in a lightless pit.  
"Thou shalt not break _me_."

And Sauron laughed delightedly, for here, in his stronghold he was everything. His own son had learned that.

"I _will_ break thee! And then I will own what is left of thee, _Kinslayer,_ and make thee anew."

Maglor sent his mind away, and the dead were with him. He clung to them.  
_Help me._  
But they could not. Sauron reviled those he had loved – still loved! – mocking them, and showed him his red-handed atrocities done in the name of the Oath.

Time fragmented into troughs and peaks of agony that sucked him in and spat him back out as Sauron plundered him.

Maglor had almost forgotten he possessed a body. Now he was reminded brutally that he was still of the stuff of the Earth. Agony sent him into unconsciousness and power, driven like spikes into his nerves, smashed him mercilessly back into awareness. Sauron watched the reaction to his tortures with interest, judging finely. Thus he worked the only living son of Fëanor, shock following shock, pain piled on pain. He degraded the body, macerated his ego, leaving Maglor a shell.  
But he would not beg Sauron to cease.

Melkor had wanted to break Fëanor, and had never had the chance. No, Sauron corrected, Melkor had been _afraid_ to confront him, sending demons of fire to slay the Spirit of Fire.

But Maglor resisted. Piqued, Sauron found a wall that opposed all his attempts at disintegration, a splinter of fire struck from the father.

"Scream," he encouraged Maglor gently. "I am the hand of the Valar, Macalaurë, I am the working out of thine offenses. Beg for my mercy, and it is finished. There will be peace."

Maglor heard him through the waves of horror. He did not answer.

_Fatherfatherfather.._

He was tied to a wheel and it slowly turned, lowering his head into a vat of orc-filth. His lungs screamed, as he thought he must breathe or die there came the turn back into the air. Reflexively, the thing that had once been Maglor (_Maglor. I was Maglor. I was..._) allowed tearing breaths to fill him, inhaling excrement, vomiting it up.

"Rapist. _Kinslayer._ Scream."

And Maglor would not, his mind coiled inward, in grief, in remembrance, in madness.

~~~

"What in the Hells is he doing? Who is he playing with?" Vanimórë demanded. He had ridden in haste from the south and was waiting for an audience.

From the blackness and cold where he dwelt, Khamul said, his voice a hissing in the room: "He found a Noldo old friend."

"A _Noldo?_" Vanimórë stopped in his pacing and flung round, his eyes seeking those under the black cowl.

If a wraith could laugh, then Khamul did.

A door opened. Vanimórë knew whence it lead, to rooms designed for Sauron's torture of mind and body. He had been in them himself.

"Well?" his father lifted a brow.

"Lord, there is news that the fleet of Ar-Pharazôn has landed at Umbar." He bowed with studied correctness. "He is marching inland, marching _north,_ and his army covers the very horizons. His heralds demand that thou come forth. What are my battle orders?"

_Where in the Hells didst thou find a Noldo? _ he wondered.

"This is not unexpected, I will prepare," Sauron sounded preternaturally calm. "And thou wilt remain here. I have a task for thee...Not battle, Slave. I have plans far more..._interesting_ than war. I want thee to tend my prisoner. I think thou wilt be surprised when I tell thee whom he is."

 

 

~~~

 

 

He had no sense of how much time had passed when the door opened again.  
Through the overwhelming stench of orc excrement, came a subtle, rich perfume.

"Lord?" Harsh, rasping. "What are your orders?"

Another voice lilted: "Release him. I will see to him."

The manacles were released. Maglor felt himself fall. He was caught by strong arms, held firmly, without apparent effort. So strong, so reassuring, it might have been his father...

Another room glimpsed through clogged eyelashes. Scented water swirled around him, over him. He felt arms, a body hard as steel.   
_ Adar?_

There was no answer, only the gentle rub of cloth, the rinse of water, fingers delving through his matted hair, teasing out filth-snarled strands, the stream of water.

Then he was carried again, laid upon a bed. Soft coverlets were drawn over him, a rich red wine was brought to his lips. Not Sauron then, unless he had again changed shape. This one was Noldoran (and that was madness, of course) luminous purple eyes, raven hair, strange tattoos marking white flesh.

"Maglor, come back." His voice too, was beautiful. The words were Sindarin, but the lilting accent was strange.

"Thou shalt heal. Hear me, thou _shalt heal._ But I must give thee something to hate. Hate against the despair which consumes thee. I will give thee...myself."

 

 

~~~

 

 

He had heard the stranger speak and not understood it. He was fading. It was finished, here in this place of darkness, the center of the evil in the world, where he had been smashed to pieces...  
The one who nursed him made him drink wine, warm gruel, laid unguents on his wounds, but Maglor was largely unaware. His mind was shocked almost into fugue with horror, with pain and the self-excoriating shame of all those who have been raped.  
He had impressions: barred windows against an ember sky, distant noises, soft sheets, the polished gleam of basalt walls, rare spices, a touch firm yet gentle, violet eyes, a face of fierce beauty, but mostly, he sank into unconsciousness, beginning the slow downward spiral of fading.

One day, or so he supposed from the light, he opened his eyes. The strange man was a constant presence, something fixed and almost familiar now. He was a riddle, but Maglor was too weary to solve it. He was dying, last remnant of a ruined and cursed House.  
The man carried a heavy tray bearing wine, which seethed in a beaten silver jug, sending tendrils of rich steam into the air. He poured and raised Maglor to drink, which Maglor did uncomplainingly, imagining he could still taste the liquid filth in his mouth. Then he was laid back, closing his eyes.

''Look at me,'' the voice was deep and rich, with that accent Maglor seemed to remember from long ago. It had been spoken by Men then, but these words were Sindarin, an ancient form which he himself had learned from the Grey Elves soon after coming to Beleriand. He looked, his unwilling gaze held by purple eyes and he thought, without knowing why, of the scattered gems on the table where his father had shown him what desire was...

_Gone so long, all of them gone so long! _

Slim fingers smoothed back his hair, then traced lightly down over cheekbone to jaw. A thumb ran over his closed mouth. The hands dropped, skimming along the uncovered plane of his shoulders, and drew back the sheet. Maglor felt the cloth slide over his chest, his stomach, his hips...His eyes widened, his mouth parted in protest, only for it to be covered by soft lips.  
''Hush, Macalaurë.''

The kiss deepened, but even as Maglor locked his teeth, it broke before it could become invasive, moved down the column of his neck. He felt a cool cascade, heavy as pouring water, as the raven hair sighed over him, loosed from its high plume, it covered him as another sheet.

''Thou art beautiful.'' It was a throaty whisper. Teeth closed gently over the point of his ear.  
He gasped, his hands beat out and impacted on a hard chest. There came gentle laughter. Through his palms the heartbeat resounded, deep and strong, before he felt again the slippery drag of the hair as the man moved. He was kneeling now, bending to close his lips over Maglor's nipple, licking like a cat, tracing to the other. Tongue and teeth razed down his belly. Maglor's flesh burned, his heart leaped like a nervous horse bolting. He dug his hands into the sheets beneath him as warm breath whispered over his hot groin. A tongue lapped him, stroked him, teased down the hardening member; a hand cupped his testicles, then gave way to a mouth. He sucked in breath, helplessly arching as the mouth worked him maddeningly. A rimming of the tongue's tip drove him upward from the sheets, his head tossing from side to side. The rhythm increased, and he was helpless, building, building, throbbing almost to release, and then held there by sweeps and licks. There was no thought in his mind now but the mounting need. His hands lifted from their grip on the silk, clenched frenziedly in the man's hair, holding him. This time, he did not stop.

Maglor exploded, the pleasure shattering him to the core, leaving him boneless, almost sobbing as he was milked of every last drop of seed.

''Delicious,'' the man whispered, and raised his head. His hair coiled and spilled like sea-wrack, eyes gleaming through its tendrils.  
"Rest now, beauty. Thou shalt not die. I have vowed it."

Maglor fell instantly into exhausted sleep and woke bewildered, until memory crashed upon him like falling stones.  
In this place, he had taken pleasure, given to him by some thrall who served the Dark.  
Hate began to send out hair-roots through his veins; hate and the need to feel _more,_ to wash away the rape, the shame, the pain...  
And it was this which brought him close to madness again, that a part of him _needed_ it.

The man did not take him until he was hale, and by then every nerve screamed for possession in a turmoil of loathing and wanton hunger. He feared more pain, but it was not rape; this time, cool oil was slipped within him and made him gasp out a stifled, voiceless cry. He tensed, feeling the invasion and trembled, braced himself. Strong, slender hands clasped his hips and then..._then_ some part within him was touched which burned him into shocking, blazing pleasure. He moaned as the movement blasted him again and again, and he abdicated control, pushed back. Lips dropped kisses on his back, his shoulders, scattered them amid whispers of seduction. A hand reached around to clasp his engorged shaft – and his sanity shattered again. There was only _hunger._

He needed, and hated that he needed, hated that his body should betray him. The stranger manipulated him mercilessly. He knew where to touch, how to tease, how to rouse, how to _give_. Maglor, believing he should die, loathed himself and the other equally. Mad he was, and truly so for a while, a mind at war with a body that wanted this rich, generous sex. And sometimes, sometimes he thought that the one who possessed him, who drove him wanton and wild, crying out for more, was his father...

But Fëanor had never had him.  
Only in his dreams...

~~~

 


	13. O! Fëanor! My Father!

~ ~ "There is something crooked in me " A wild, despairing voice out of the past. "Do this for me ! I need it !"

Maedhros in Tirion, so long ago. Clear as flame came the memories and the words; flame like the copper of his brother's hair against a white face as he spoke.

Against Maglor's closed eyelids, the images leaped to life, he walked into them; he was there again.

~~~

''I care not what the Laws say! Thou art not crooked. Do not ask me to do this !'' He laid a gentle hand on Maitimo's bared back. ''How can pain assuage pain?''

''Thou canst not yet understand such things, Canafinwë. It _can_ assuage pain and hunger of the body – for a time.''

The smooth voice was their father's. Macalaurë whirled to see Fëanáro regarding them both with an incalculable smile.

''Atar,'' he began, and then his eyes were seized and mastered by those gemfire ones which outshone the light of the Trees. He found his throat closing.

''The Valar made Laws, with our people.'' Fëanáro picked up the sword belt Maglor had thrown aside, ran it through his fingers, before raising a hand and sweeping Maitimo's hair over one shoulder. His voice was intimate, almost tender as he drew his hand down his eldest son's back.

''But they do not understand us. We are not their creations. We are Eru's children. They do not know what fires burn in us, they do not know our desires, they do not know our _needs._'' An aura seemed to well through his very flesh, a coronal of light, tinged with every other color, even deepest black. ''Do they, Nelyafinwë?'' His voice was a purr. ''And since the agony is in thy _fëa_ and will spread to every part of thee, it has to be purged before it touches everything, and blossoms into a dark flower in the mind and the body. Thou wilt learn, Canafinwë, that sometimes pain of the soul can only be salved by pain of the body. Even the Valar,'' the last word was contemptuous. ''understand this not.''

''_Atar,_'' Macalaurë found his voice, but it was a mere thread. The power that surrounded Fëanáro held him motionless, and he flinched as the lash came down on his brother's back. A red wheal immediately rose on the fair skin. Another bloomed as it struck again. The blows were not gentle, they were wielded with a force and yet a control which somehow shocked Macalaurë more than if his father had lashed Maitimo in rage. Fëanáro's face was stern, even calm, but for the fire of his eyes. There was anger in them, but it was not directed at Maitimo.  
Macalaurë had never seen true violence, only the rough play of sparring, and glimpsed then what Fëanáro, even he himself, might be capable of. He felt at once ice cold in that warm garden.

The skin peeled back from the leather, burned and weeping blood and he cried out: ''Father ! No more !''

The belt fell one more time and then Fëanáro tossed it away. Stepping to Maitimo, he murmured: ''Thou art determined that thy feelings are wrong, and so no matter what the truth of it, it will eat at thee, Nelyafinwë. So, let this pain give thee some peace for a time. Thou art brave, moreso than thou dost credit thyself.'' He pressed a kiss to the damp copper hair and turned to Macalaure. ''Take him in, tend to him.''

_I do not understand him at all. Do I even know him? _ Macalaure thought as he came to Maitimo's side.  
''Lean on me,'' he whispered.

Fëanáro picked up the belt, drew the leather through his fingers and looked at the blood which stained his white skin with a faint, detached frown.  
''I cannot have thee weak, Nelyafinwë, but I understand thee better than thou knowest. I love thee, and that black-burning star of fire and desire, I know that well, how it can gnaw and eat at one...Thou shalt have what thou desirest, once thou seest there is no other way for thee. Or for him.'' He stared up at the white walls and towers. "What is happening to us? My wife turns from me as if I am a thing unclean. She is not the woman who bedded with me so joyously but some-one else entirely, frigid as the snows of Taniquetil. And she is not the only one. Our fire is guttering in this place. It shall not be so. I will not let it be so ! Art thou listening, Manwë, Varda? _I will not permit it !_" He turned and strode away.

~~~

Macalaurë helped his brother through the back ways of the palace wing that his father occupied when in Tirion. Once in Maitimo's chamber, he made him lie face down on the bed.  
"Nothing is worth this pain." He hunted for the unguent they used for cuts and bruises got in training bouts and gently smeared it on Maitimo's back.

"Is it not?" his brother asked, but his voice was flayed – and literally – of its tension.  
Macalaurë shook his head, but remained beside Maitimo until his face eased into sleep.

_Father is right. I do not understand. _ He kissed the his brother's brow before leaving the room.  
_Atar? _ He followed Fëanáro's returning thought along a hall, down a shallow flight of steps into a room where few came unless invited.

Scrolls lay on shelves, their spools showing the polish of much handling. On one table of stood a partly finished sculpting, on another intricate links of white and red-gold lay and cut amethysts were scattered on a cloth of white velvet with tools about them. A Palantir, perfectly round, as if milled from a block of solid jet, sat upon its round stand, swirling with colors.

Fëanáro stood at the long window, a goblet of wine in one hand. He drank and put it aside.  
There was always such a sense of restless energy about him, as if he could not be still, save when his mind were concentrated on a task. He turned, and at the blazing glance of his eyes, Macalaure said:  
''Atar, I have tended him. He sleeps.''

Fëanáro nodded, walked across to a side table, and poured wine, handing his son a cup.  
''Drink,'' he commanded, and Macalaurë felt the coolness wash down his throat, bring some clarity to his mind.  
''Didst thou know, father?''

A black brow rose. ''Of his love for Findekáno. Of course.''

Macalaurë's gasped. ''But...he thinks that thou wouldst be ashamed of him, think him twisted.''

''Ashamed of him desiring another man?'' Fëanáro gave vent to a short laugh. ''Ah, Canafinwë, hast thou never desired anything that is outside our Laws?''  
''The Valar know we are beyond them! They know that in the great lands over the sea we would truly be our own masters, we would make our own Laws!'' He turned, pacing back to the window. ''As I said to Nelyafinwë, they _do not understand us !_ They are Powers, but they do not have the fire that the One placed in us. They are jealous of that, and would fence us in with the petty Laws, the customs with they themselves follow."  
"They know we could change the face of Arda! And so they keep us in a narrow land, in a jealous Light which they withhold from Middle-earth and trammel us, until the fire burns out of us and we become pale reflections of them, without passion, or desires, drifting here, enriching their land, their servants.'' He whirled in a cloud of hair, and a face like a naked blaze. ''But we are _not_ their servants ! The One created us. And he made us to _burn !_ If we remain here it will go out, or so they hope ! And I will not permit that to happen !''

His son's breath caught as Fëanáro crossed to him.  
''We are meant to be free, and to burn, and have I not burned for things forbidden? Of course I understand Maitimo, how could I not? All of thee are my sons. _Mine._''

''We are thine and would follow thee anywhere !'' Maglor declared. "Thou knowest it – to the Outer Lands, if that is where thou wouldst lead us."

''The time is not ripe for us to openly defy the Valar, which is why that Jail Crow of Mandos is useful, for he knows of weapons and of war.'' Fëanaro dismissed the mightiest of all the Ainur with a sweep of one white hand. ''But the time is coming – _our time _, Canafinwë, and we will leave this place. Then we will devise our own laws, and live as we will.''  
His hands closed on Macalaurë's shoulders. ''Nelyafinwë will come to see there is no wrong in his desires. He is my son; flesh, bone, and spirit.'' His eyes were glorious and terrible in their shining.  
''Thou canst not yet understand him, or why I scourged him to give him another pain to think on. Thou shalt know, for I am in thee, but no-one has ever made thee burn.'' He drew Macalaurë closer. ''Hast thou never looked at the arch of a neck, the curve of a lip, the beauty of a body, and not wished to bury thyself in its hot warmth, or feel another posses thee until thou art theirs, and can only beg for more?''  
Warm breath whispered against the column of his throat, and with a sense of incredulous, fascinated alarm, Macalaurë felt heat flush through him. He trembled to his bones as the full force of Fëanaro's charisma impacted directly onto him.

No, he had not felt this, and he realized suddenly that his father wanted him to comprehend the hungers that drove him, drove Maitimo, for him to be free of the innocence that urged him to support his eldest brother with unconditional love, but also without comprehension. That was why he could not raise the belt against Maitimo; he loved him, but did not know why he needed pain. Macalaurë had never felt the need within himself, never had to fight such a compulsion.  
His nerves burned, his head tilted back, without his volition, the black lashes fluttering closed.

''Canst thou see now?'' Fëanáro asked. ''Canst thou _feel?_''

A sound wept from him as his father's lips touched the hollow of his throat. Teeth grazed his skin, patterning upwards to his mouth, to seize it, invade it, to claim...

His moan of desire was lost in the kiss which arched his back. His hair fell heavily on the gem dusted surface of the table; he heard stones scatter. And then he knew nothing, no sense of right or wrong. All he felt, through the explosions which blinded everything, was a raging hunger.

''_Please !_'' he groaned, feeling the silk laces of his tunic snap, yearning toward the demanding mouth, the hands which knew exactly where to touch. A mist of perspiration broke on his brow.  
''_Please, father !_'' Wanton now, he longed to be burned by that naked flame, wanted it to consume him utterly.

''I could take thee now and thou wouldst beg me to stop.'' The voice came through fire and light. ''But I would show thee such pleasure that thou wouldst plead for it never to end. The body and the soul both have their needs Canafinwë. Now dost thou see why our fires are not fitted to Aman, that they do burn too hot for this narrow land?''

His son's eyes opened, hazed with longing, his breath came in hard, panting exhalations. Fëanáro's eyes branded his soul.  
''_Now_ thou art awake,'' he whispered.

In shock, aching with unfulfilled need, Macalaurë nodded and turned his face away. He let himself sink to the polished marble of the floor, his face pressed against the cool stone.

''Do not make the error of thinking that any pious Law withholds me from taking thee, Canafinwë. The gentlest they say thou art, yet thy passion is all mine. Now consider whom thou art, what thou art. _My son._ With all that entails.'' The hand on the tousled hair was gentle now, a father comforting his distressed child. There was a breath of perfumed air and the room was silent as the energy which surrounded the High Prince vanished with him.  
His shoulders heaving, Macalaurë silently wept.

_Ai, Maedhros - he was right. I did not understand and now I am also touched by his terrible fire and I know...I know now. He is within all of us. _

~~~

''That is not something I personally would feel any guilt over.''  
The voice sprang his eyes open. ''The mighty Fëanor showed thee what it was to feel desire?'' A smile bent the firm mouth. ''How fortunate for thee.''

_Whom art thou? What art thou?_ Maglor screamed in the vaults of his mind.

''I am no-one, Macalaurë.'' The thrall smiled, elusive. ''A slave. I am nothing.''

''Thou wilt join me in Númenor." Sauron had ordered. "Heal the Fëanorion and bring him. He promises endless amusement. I will make him my buffoon, as Melkor made Salgant after Gondolin fell. Melkor _always_ desired a Fëanorian toy.''  
Salgant had been a coward, and there was no satisfaction in breaking the weak-minded. Maglor was a challenge; the destruction of his will would be a pleasure to savor.

_I do not think so, Father, I think this one will be... mislaid. Some fool was not vigilant, so sorry. _

His words would mean nothing, of course. So be it.

Vanimórë regarded Maglor intently as a lover. ''No-one knew what happened to thee,'' he murmured, and lifted the other's right hand, seeing the white scars which never faded. Maglor wrenched it back.

''There is _such_ fire within thee, and I have made it blaze again, Maglor Fëanorion. Thou wilt live now...and hate me for it.''

One day he brought a harp. It was made by men, not designed with the expert and beautiful artistry of the Elves, but still it was a harp. Music.

''Play for me.''

Play for _him?_

Maglor lifted his head, meeting those brilliant purple eyes. There was no mockery in them. He set his jaw and felt heat burn into his face as he reached for the instrument. It was the only release from his thoughts. Why could he not release his hold on life? Would the curse not allow him to? Was he paying back in full for all those deaths, for the rape, and his unholy desires?

And then, one night he was given without explanation, cloak, weapon and pack, and taken through great halls and down endless steps to where horses waited. Vanimórë mounted and, rode with him across the ashen plain to Udûn and the great gates, which were opened as both rode out.  
Even with Sauron gone, Mordor was a place of dread, and through his burning hatred, Maglor felt the change as the gates receded behind them.  
Where did they go? He would ask no questions of this one, but the cowled head turned to his, the violet eyes amused.

''_I_ go to Númenor, as I am so ordered. Where thou doth go, is in thine own hands.''

_What?_ thought Maglor, jerking reflexively on the reins of the mount, who rolled a furious eye back and squealed.

''Thou art free. I was to take thee to Númenor; _his_ orders.'' He pushed back the hood. ''He wants to break thee, leave thee witless. And that might take a long, long time, Fëanorion. Thou hast great will and strength. And against him, if he had thee again, I could do naught. I see thy hate for me, yet I gave thee back thy will to live did I not? And Sauron is not here, so I may act according to mine own...whims.'' The laugh was wickedly amused. ''Some things are too fine to be smashed.'' He lifted a black-gloved hand, pointing to the west.  
''I have provided thee with wine, food, weapons, and gold. Go whither thou wilt.'' He gathered up the stallion's reins in one hand. ''Until next we meet, Fëanorion. Do not forget me.'' The gauntleted fingers came to Maglor's face. ''Do not let him triumph. Live ! Defy him by living. By being. I do.'' A last ripple of laughter and the horses hooves gathered to a run as it disappeared into the darkness.

_Ah, Eru, perhaps thou dost indeed act in ways beyond my ken. Had the Númenoreans not brought their armies to Middle-earth and demanded my father come forth, I would have been helpless to save Maglor. How beautifully coincidental. Or was it? Whether or no, I never waste an opportunity dropped into my lap. I would not see the son of Fëanor as Sauron's buffoon, broken and unhinged, a shadow of what he once was. And now he burns again, through hatred of me. It was the only way I could re-ignite that flame. And it was glorious. _

Cultured, elegant, a slave; his life had long banished self-deceit from him. He could look into his own soul. He met himself and what he was eye to eye. He knew what he enjoyed and saw no reason to bury such desires under flowery euphemism or the moral cowardice of denial. Sometimes a little poetry entered the starkness of his life, and that last interlude had been redolent of it.

_I am no-one, I am nothing,_ he had said, with the bearing of a prince and warrior, clothed always in severe black. A mystery, an enigma who would haunt Maglor for thousands of years.

Ever the coasts called him. Maglor turned westward hardly believing that he was free. Mordor was behind him. He breathed in the scents of growth and green things like a man parched for sweet water.  
And the strange _no-one_ had been right: his body had healed, but as his dear and lost brother Maedhros, the shadow of his pain would forever be in his eyes.

  


** Chapter End Notes. **

Maitimo - Maedhros  
Makalaurë - Maglor  
Canafinwë - Maglor - father name  
Nelyafinwë - Maedhros - father name  
Quenya names are used here because the Noldor did not learn Sindarin until they came to Middle-earth.


	14. Of Blood And Fire

 

  
~ Ever the Fëanorion wandered back towards the coasts, to the north where, before all the lands were changed, he had thrown the Silmaril from his bloody hand, watching it blaze into the deeps.

For a time he did not realize he even traveled, moving through days and nights almost as a wraith. He came back to his senses as his mount stumbled and he reflexively held to its back as it pitched. Dropping lightly from the saddle, feeling his feet touch earth.  
He had come through the land that lay on the north side of the Ered Nimrais, Anorien it would be named in latter days. There were few other routes westward to the sea.

He pried the stone from the hoof, drew the reins over the horse's head, walking him, and it was borne upon him that he felt hunger. Turning toward a patch of woodland, he slipped the saddle from his mount's back. He must have filled the water-skin on his journey, but he did nor recollect it, nor eating from the packs of dried fruits and meat.

As if seeing things for the first time, he noted that he had a bow made of horn, a quiver of arrows. He ran his fingers down the curve of the bow. The Elves preferred yew, with its mysterious melding of heart-wood and sap-wood which was so responsive in the hands of an archer, but this would serve him.

He shivered in the quiet evening, remembering that one...that _'No-one'_ dressing him as if he had been Maglor's body-servant, in supple black leather, close fitting tunic, a hauberk of black mail. He had secured the sword belt around his waist, slipped his feet into boots, draped a long, hooded cloak about his shoulders and braided his hair.

''A superb fit, we might be brothers,'' the smooth, mocking voice had said.

Without thinking, Maglor set the bow against his inner foot and calf, bending it to slip the string into its groove.

A grouse, warm and unaware in the last sun, fell to his first arrow, and he set himself to gut and spit it on a stick of green wood, keeping the fire small, hearing the spatter of fat into the flames. Hunger was something he rarely felt, but the breath of hot meat made his very bones feel starved. He ate, and found it gave him ballast, tipped the world back into clearer vision. Darkness fell, the last birds piped and he leaned his head on his knees, looking at the fire through the angle of his arms.

_Coward! Accursed coward! Why did I not just die? _

But he knew why. The words of the Oath he had taken were ever clear, as if graven in fire and so too were the later words he had spoken to his elder brother:  
** _''The Oath says not that we may not bide our time, and it may be that in Valinor all shall be forgiven and forgot, and we shall come into our own in peace.'' _ **

But Maedhros had replied that if they surrendered to judgment and the favor of the Valar be withheld from them, then still they would be bound by the Oath without possibility of fulfillment.

** _''Who can tell to what dreadful doom we shall come, if we disobey the Powers in their own land, or purpose ever to bring war again into their holy realm?'' _ **

** _''If Manwe and Varda themselves deny the fulfillment of an oath to which we named them in witness, is it not made void?'' _ ** Maglor questioned, almost despairingly.

Maedhros, his face harrowed and stark, answered: **_''But how shall our voices reach to Ilúvatar beyond the Circles of the World? And by Ilúvatar we swore in our madness and called the Everlasting Darkness upon us, if we kept not our word. Who shall release us?''_ **

**_''If none can release us, then indeed the Everlasting Darkness shall be our lot, whether we keep our oath or break it , but less evil shall we do in the breaking.'' _ ** And he had looked at his brother's face, so hard with grief under the clouds of copper hair and whispered, his voice breaking in pain; _''I have done too much evil."_

And yet Maglor would ever support his brother, whose heart was broken with Fingon's death. He would not leave Maedhros or abandon him in this last extreme.

And then it became dreadfully clear that there was no way that they could ever effectuate the Oath, for the Silmarils themselves renounced the brothers in fire and searing pain. Their lives were too soaked in blood...

_Oh, my brother...! _ Memories, never forgotten, were drawn out of him in his fiery rebirth of hate and lust...

~~~

~ _ They were still what they had ever been, but both now were sick and weary of the dreadful Oath which still bound them, a weight of mountains on their hearts. They loathed it and themselves as, wearing dark clothes over their armor they walked, unchallenged through the night into the encampment._

~~~

The War of Wrath had lasted for fifty years, as the Hosts of the Valar and the Elves and Men of Beleriand contended with Morgoth, and his minions. Those who had dwelt in Beleriand and the north were lead into Lindon across the Ered Luin, for all the land where they had lived was shaken by the colliding Powers.

Perhaps the two living sons of Fëanor hoped that they might reclaim the Silmarilli if Morgoth were defeated, but when Morgoth unleashed his winged drakes, lead by Ancalagon the Black all hope seemed like to wither. It was then that a brilliant flame was seen in the skies and there came shining Eärendil . About him flew the Great Eagles and many other birds and they battled and Eärendil's spear struck Ancalagon and he was cast down, falling upon Thangorodrim and breaking the threefold peaks in ruin.

Morgoth was dragged forth from his deepest halls in Angband and thrown upon his face, and cast out into the Eternal Dark. But Maedhros and Maglor could not come to the Silmarils for Eonwë, Herald of the Valar, took them and they were placed under guard of the Vanyar. A summons then went forth to all the Elves to depart from Middle-earth forever and to dwell in Tol Eressëa until the End of All Things.

~~~

''Yet more blood,'' Maglor whispered as he drew his sword.

The guards were taken by surprise and although they fought, they stood little chance against those two, so driven and hardened by their wars. The brothers slew them with ease, and burst through into the pavilion.

The Silmarilli were placed in a casket of crystal and all the interior of the tent glowed with their radiance. Drawn toward it like summer moths to a lamp they approached. Maedhros lifted the lid of the casket.

''Oh, father,'' he whispered ''It is done...! Maglor...!''

For a moment they stared at one another and their eyes held no joy, no triumph, only the broken dreams of many centuries.

''We must go.''

Their hands reached out and closed about the jewels and they fled.

But the camp was roused now. Maglor's sword rose and fell in a sudden shear of blood, for Maedhros had but one hand and that held the Silmaril.

''It burns!'' Maglor hissed through his teeth even as he whirled and the blade entered a body and withdrew.

''**NO!**'' Eönwë's voice echoed like thunder across the skies. ''Put up! They are not to be harmed!''

Enraged, bewildered, the Elven warriors yet obeyed and the only two remaining sons of Fëanor ran into the darkness. The world was broken and changed in those northern regions; great fissures in the earth glowed with fire and ember smoke and beyond, the Great Sea roared against the new coastlines.

''_Oh, father!_ I cannot hold it, it burns me!''

Maedhros stumbled and came to a halt. Fumes wreathed about him, the light catching the copper of his hair, turning it to a mane of blood. He opened his left hand. It ran with scarlet.

''So much blood...'' His face was destitute, graven with anguish. ''Our sins are too great.''

Maglor's sonorous voice came flat and muted. ''They reject us. We are lost...''

Blood hung in droplets from their fingers then gathered in weight and fell to the ground. It hissed against hot stone.

''Macalaurë...it is ended.'' Maedhros' eyes held his brother's as he drew the shining jewel against his breast.  
And he stepped back.

''_Maedhros!_'' Maglor leaped to the edge of the chasm, reaching out. ''_No!_''

His blood-slicked fingers slipped from Maedhros' armor. He saw the dark shape of his brother silhouetted by red light, hair billowing upwards...and he felt the last thoughts from a mind which had endured too much. It was the last aid he could give, the last thing he could share, this final pain...  
_ Oh, my brother..._

The burning grew greater, deeper, all around him now, within him...perhaps it could destroy the pain in his heart.

''Father!'' His voice throbbed with agony '' Maglor...'' then, at the last; ''Oh, _Fin..!_''  
His clothes caught alight, his armor glowed red, his hair blazed.

Too much pain...

And then, in one last furious burst which tore a scream of agony from his lungs, it was gone...

Maglor did not even realize he ran. He was mad with horror. His heart pounded in his ears as he fled he knew not where. His hair streamed back in a sudden slap of cold air. It smelled of brine and night.

All gone. All of them and for him there was nothing save eternal imprisonment for his offenses, separated forever from those he loved...

He opened his hand. It was sticky with blood.

''_Father!_'' His bard's voice rose over the angry beating of the ocean. ''Maedhros! My brothers!'' _ I failed thee, I failed all of us...I am sorry!_

He threw.

The Silmaril flew from his bloody hand, far, far out, blazing, a star of incandescent beauty; falling, falling, until it met the seething waves and the sea, for a moment, shone with brilliance.  
And then, as the jewel sank slowly through the deep waters, the light faded, and went out... ~

~~~

All that left then was the Everlasting Dark. Maedhros had embraced it, seeking to end his pain and anguish in the fires of the earth.

All of them gone now but Maglor, and what he feared more that anything was never to see them again, to embrace them, his brothers, his father, that there only be nothing. Ah, and yes, at times, such oblivion seemed the essence of peace, but not for all Time, never to even remember love and beauty and friendship.

That was what chained him to his body upon Middle-earth, ultimately it was love of those, perhaps forever lost. Living was the only way he could hold them.

As he watched the flames eat the darkness, he knew that indeed his voice could not reach to the One, beyond the confines of the world, and that he deserved all that had been visited upon him. Gorthaur had ravaged his memories to show him incontestably that he had nothing, was nothing. Even love could not survive that evil.

And yet it had.

He loved with the abandoned fierceness of his bloodline and it had sustained him through unthinkable torments - to the end...when something within him had broken at last and his demolished fëa began to slip from his maltreated flesh.

Until that _No-one _ came, cleansing him, giving him wine, speaking to him, seducing him, throwing burning pitch upon the embers of his spirit, reigniting the fire which was native to him.

He thought he could have loathed none more than Gorthaur, or Morgoth before him, but the 'No-one' was not some dread Power, he was something more knowable, and somehow more terrible.  
And he had known precisely, exactly what he was doing.

''I need thee to hate, or thou wilt die and why should _He_ know the satisfaction of scourging the last of Fëanor's from Middle-earth? What is he, slave himself to Morgoth Bauglir to dare to essay such?'' Wild hate had hissed in those words, and Maglor understood with flashing clarity that this one detested Sauron even more than he himself.  
He had given him a harp, to make music, the balm for his wounded soul, given him back everything - and the will to live.

So he would live, drawn again towards the shores of the sea and he had been in the forests of the Ered Luin when the ground shook, the sky and earth exploded and the trees bent like reeds before a storm which flung the salt spray of the ocean far inland. He could taste it on his lips.

He might have been close to the coasts, but the birds and beasts of Lindon had been uneasy in the days before. Maglor had seen even the snakes slipping inland, adders that basked among the sea-thrift on the cliff-tops. The cries of the gulls and other birds were filled with warning and he was unsettled. Thus he was not overwhelmed but for a long time, isolated as he was, he did not know what had happened. When he returned to the shores he saw afar off, great ships with torn sails approaching the land, and knew that some vast calamity had come to pass, but knew nothing until, some years after, a lone Laiquendi woman came upon him.

Her people, the Green Elves, had once dwelled in Ossiriand, the Land of Seven Rivers in Beleriand and the Noldor, coming into those regions had heard their singing and named the country beyond it Lindon, the land of Song.

After the cataclysmic war which had brought the First Age to its end, the Laiquendi remained in Lindon. They had always been a secretive people, living alone or in small groups, walking the forests at the feet of the Blue Mountains. They had no lords since the death of their lord Denethor, on Amon Ereb, long ago under the stars.  
At times they might be seen in Mithlond but usually this was when they were about to take ship and sail from Middle Earth. Otherwise, few set eyes on them. They were masters of stealth, moving in silence, wielding bows and were skilled in all the ways of birds and beasts. Few had ever been involved in the Wars that racked Middle Earth, but some of their kindred had aided the sons of Fëanor as they fled from the ruin of the Dagor Nirnaeth Arnoediad.

In the early spring, the woman had followed a skein of northward traveling geese, who summered up in the northern wastes. There was no purpose in her beyond the joy of running with the scent of the warming air around. And it was then, that she first scented the brine of the sea, and heard the crying of gulls, that a mingled yearning and restlessness came upon her, and she turned her face westward. She was still running when a red sunset came, and as she watched it paint the sky she heard far off, music.

A harp was being played, flawlessly, poignantly. The sadness in each note brought tears springing to her eyes Her people loved music but this was beyond anything she had ever heard and she followed it, as if in a dream until she came to a stand of wind-bent trees.  
Among them before a tiny fire, sat the one who harped.

She thought she made no noise at all, but he raised his head.  
Her blood jumped through her veins.

The face was hauntingly beautiful, pure white as if sculpted from snow. An unkempt mane of ebony hair spread about him as he sat, the harp tilted toward him. Becoming aware of her, he rose, lithe as a cat, towering over her and she knew him for High Elf, one of the Eldar, whose eyes had seen the Light of the Trees of Valinor.

He never spoke. She knew not whom he could be. Some tragedy clung to him, the sense of pain and bitter grief. From that first glimpse, she both feared him and worshiped him.  
His clothing was threadbare and so she bought him garments of the Laiquendi, green and grey. She combed his gleaming black hair and braided it, she brought him wine and food and he repaid her with his harping, but not one word did he utter. She was content to simply to look at him and listen to his peerless music.

He never stayed in one place long but she found him by that music, always on the shores, his hair blown by the wind, in rain, or sun, in snow and mist.  
He never spoke, but she told him all her people knew of what passed in the lands. He learned of Atalantë, the Downfallen, and wondered if Sauron had perished, along with the 'no-one' whom had released him. But he did not believe it. He would _know._ He would sense it.

The Dark Lord's torture had become graven on his soul, but that thrall had reached within it even more deeply, and memories could not be wiped away, even by death. He felt no relief, no surcease of mental torment. He had learned, long ago, that one could never walk away from oneself.

In the years that followed, as Arnor was founded and Lindon flourished, he remained ever close to the shores, or lost himself in the forests. And one starlit night as Eärendil blazed in the west, he found the voice he had lost in Barad-dûr and lifted his head, opening his throat. Unused for so long, at first it was hoarse, but then gathered it's ancient power and beauty. He sang only in deserted places where he was sure none would hear, yet his singing and his dreams reached into the soul of one who bore his blood, one he did not know existed.

Maglor had ever bound his son to him.~

~~~

 

*Taken from The Silmarillion.  



	15. Akallabêth

 

~ _ He will admit, one day, that he needed what I gave him. And **I** needed **him.** Ironic that in a place where I also have known humiliation and pain, I should find ecstasy after so long. _

Vanimórë wished he could have kept Maglor with him, explored what had flared between then, but had he obeyed his Maglor would now be in chains and on his way to Númenor. Had Sauron truly believed Vanimórë would bring him? He could force his son if he bore down hard enough, but he had not. Anyhow, Maglor was free, and save by mischance, he would live. The re-ignited fire in him burned too hotly for him to kill himself or simply lie down and die.

_He was magnificent. I would have given much to know his father. He was too fine to end a witless toy, but I would have taken his life myself, ere that. Some things should never be broken._

~~~

Vanimórë had seen Angband and Barad-dûr, but he had never seen or suspected that anything built by Men could be as Númenor.

Whilst Endor slipped into a dark and savage age, the Land of Gift had prospered under wise and long-lived rulers, but gradually and insidiously their pride and ambition likewise grew. The Eldar of Tol Eressëa no longer sailed to Númenor, and the dealings of the Sea-kings with the Men of Middle-earth became arrogant.  
For long years they had come almost as Gods to the Men of Middle-earth. Legends would ever tell of the tall Men from the sea, and not all of them would be edifying.

It was said that Númenor needed no trade, so rich were its natural resources, but as the years passed the kings and nobles became jaded and greedy. Already the the great forests of Enedwaith and Minhiriath had been hewed down for the building of their fleets. Now they sought for oddities and amusements from far lands.

Armenelos the Golden, this city was called. Here the first king, Elros Tar-Minyatur had built a tower and in the Court of the King grew Nimloth, scion of the White Tree of Tirion.

Meneltarma, the volcanic mountain at the center of the isle, its five roots branching out into peninsulas, loomed overhead. Vanimórë thought he discerned a drift of smoke over it as the ship nudged into harbor.

In latter days, Vanimórë could truly say that he had not foreseen what the coming of Sauron would set in motion, nor the cataclysmic end. He guessed that his father would influence the King and become the true power behind the throne. Vanimórë also guessed that Sauron would encourage Ar-Pharazôn to attack Lindon and the remaining Elf-Kingdoms, then then embark upon world conquest using Númenor's army. The king would become a cipher until his usefulness waned or Sauron killed him. It was what Vanimórë himself would have done.

The streets of the city were wide and cambered; great houses lay behind marble walls, where birds sang and fountains played. Statues reared against the sky, and roofs were overlaid with gold and silver. Enormous litters carried by a score of burly slaves carried bejeweled noblewoman, the men rode fine horses and dressed as brilliantly as peacocks.

The palace was a titanic complex of buildings which seemed to challenge Meneltarma itself, and a vast throng of nobles and servants constantly passed in and out. The guards who had met with Vanimórë at the quayside, conducted him to double-doors many ells high, bound with steel and etched with gold,and pushing them back, conducted him into the presence of the King.

A mighty warrior Ar-Pharazôn had been, and was still. Restless, willful and ambitious, he had wed the daughter of the last King, Tar-Palantir by force, thus breaking the laws of Numenor. He had had no fear of Sauron and deemed it wise to bring him as a hostage to Numenor, not knowing that this exactly chimed with Sauron's desire.

Ar-Pharazôn sat enthroned in splendor, tall and strong and beside him in sumptuous black, stood Sauron, hair caught back by a circlet of red-gold. On a smaller throne close by was a lovely woman, her black hair dressed with diamonds of the finest water.

"And whom," asked the king, "is this?"  
Vanimórë was cloaked in black, a deep cowl over his features, but the robe was velvet, its hem embroidered in gold and his black boots were of the softest doeskin.

"My slave, Sire, the one I have spoken of," Sauron replied suavely. "Useful at whiles and entertaining – in many ways, thou might enjoy seeing him pitted against any of thy champions. He can fight, play, and dance. But he is rebellious. What dost thou mete out, my King, for those whom disobey thee?"

_When wilt thou learn?_ Sauron lashed ice-hot spikes of pain through Vanimórë's body.

_Art thou jesting?_ he snapped, when he could see again.

"Rebellion is treachery, and treachery merits death," the King drawled, oblivious of this interchange. "Let me see thee, slave."

Vanimórë dropped the hood from his face, loosed the cloak and shrugged it off. Ar-Pharazôn felt an instant antipathy. The slave was superb; the torrent of blue-black hair which fell to his knees was worn like a stallion's mane, without a hint of effeminacy.

"An Elf?" He cast a glance of amusement at Sauron.

"That blood does run in his veins,my King."

"It is said Elves can bear much pain," Pharazon murmured, sinking back in his throne, hand on chin.

"Thou hast heard aright, sire," Sauron agreed blandly. "Perhaps,thou wouldst like to find out the truth of the matter?"

Vanimórë saw the queen's head turn aside in aversion.

Not openly did the King yet succumb to his burgeoning desires for darker deeds. But that night he learned the power of inflicting pain on one helplessly bound.

"Why does he not scream?" he demanded of Sauron, who watched with cool eyes as the King drew the thongs of the whip through his hands, smearing blood across the palms.

"He has not cried out in pain for a long time, sire, and he heals very fast. Yet do not think him incapable of feeling hurt. He screams within, that I can assure thee. But he has many uses, and perhaps when those marks have healed thou wilt see some of them."

Sauron knew that no Man be he never so strong, could break Vanimórë. His son had been flung into the pits in Angband as a youth, to fight against Balrog, Great Orcs, and werewolves. He took over the punishment, in his own way, when Ar-Pharazôn departed.

In secret places, known only to the cronies of the King, death-matches were held among criminals, the insane or members of the faithful stolen away and made to fight or die. Sauron's ingenuity added to the spectacles but when Vanimórë, armed only with his swords and naked was ordered in to fight, no other came out alive. He was a lethal and emotionless poem of destruction, not one wasted motion; his twin scimitars became a spinning wall of steel, against which weapons rebounded, and his killing strokes never missed. Hating him, because he was of Elven blood, Ar-Pharazôn sought to match him against anything, man or beast. Spattered with gore, wounded, limping, Sauron's son would walk from the sand floor. Yet when he watched him dance, with grace and athletic beauty, the King thought perhaps he should be saved for that alone. It was a corrupt court under the layers of riches and high-bred manners, and under flowed a creeping tide of blackness.

~~~

The glory of Númenor became, Vanimórë thought, as exquisite garments covering a decaying corpse. There were only two things in Armenelos he deemed beautiful. One was Nimloth, whose fragrance discharged in the evening throughout the Court of the King. None now approached it; the King himself avoided it. Sauron spoke of Nimloth as being a taunting reminder from the Elves and Valar of the Blessed Realm that the Númenoreans might never set foot on those shores. But as yet he dared not touch it, for Ar-Pharazôn believed the fortunes of his House were bound up in Nimloth.  
The other beauty was Tar-Miriel, wed to a man she came to abhor, she bore herself with grace and dignity. She was only one beside Vanimórë who came to see Nimloth.

Vanimórë saw as irrevocably trapped as he, yet there were still those who adhered to the ways of old, and he wondered that she did not seek them out, until it became clear that her movements were dogged. She could never leave the palace unwatched.

Vanimórë moved out of the dawn shadows and spoke quietly:  
"Here stand the fairest things left in this realm."

Miriel had heard many stories of the sport had with this slave, terrible tales which she dared not confront her husband with, yet he walked and bore himself with the calm haughtier of a nobleman born.

"It is a blessing to see an Elf," she whispered behind her fan. "Although to see one who is a slave is abominable."

"I doubt any-one had ever considered me a blessing before," he said dryly. "And thou shalt see many more abominable sights if thou doth remain here."

"I cannot not leave, as neither canst thou," she returned, and he smiled, without humor.  
"Both of us then, are slaves."

After that, if chance allowed, she would speak to him, fascinated and pitying, although he repelled pity. He was as ice and stone, though his eyes gentled when they rested on her.

"I would take thee away if I could." His lips did not move as he said it, and Miriel was a born courtier; she did not reveal her surprise, but looked at him for a long moment, and inclined her head.

In those days Sauron began to whisper to the King of Melkor, whom he called the Lord of All and the Giver of Freedom, and in fear of Death, as well nigh all were in those days, Ar-Pharazôn hearkened. Then at that time was built a mighty temple. Circular it was, with a monumental dome of silver and walls ells thick. And here the first sacrifice of many was burned: Nimloth, the White Tree, and a smoke rose from it which covered the land for seven days so that men marveled and were awed.

The Queen was stricken with premonitions of disaster in those days, and finding Vanimórë she wept, as he stood with folded arms looking at the hewn trunk.

"There are things that fire cannot destroy, Lady," he said. "Yet I counsel thee to find some way to leave, for that fire in the temple will now never be put out unless the ocean covers the land."  
He did not even know if his father believed the things he preached. Sauron had become a stranger to him.

"I am overwatched," she murmured. "And this is my land. I am queen, and will not abandon my people. Where would I go?"

"Anywhere, my lady. I cannot aid thee, for Sauron knows my mind, and all unwitting I would betray thee."

Vanimórë was proven right, for after that first sacrifice came many others.  
Men spilled blood to Melkor asking that he deliver them from Death, which now came in many terrible guises. Vanimórë wondered at Men, for a final death seemed to him the ultimate peace. Yet they craved immortality and so Ar-Pharazôn began the building of the mightiest armament the world had ever seen, and his object was to sail to Valinor and wrest undying Life from the Powers. The masts of the ships were like a forest reaching from the shores far out to sea, and looking up, Vanimórë saw a cloud come from the West, blotting out the sunlight. It was shaped like an eagle with outspread pinions under which lightning cracked, and the shadow would spread over the Land of the Star as if it were uttermost night.

Then one day Sauron called to him, and ordered him to leave Númenor and make ready Barad-dûr.  
"Go. None here will dare to stay thee."

Vanimórë was more than willing, for by now the atmosphere of dread was thick as the smoke which had gone up from Nimloth. Before he left he spoke one last time to Miriel saying that her only hope now lay in escape. He thought perhaps with his father and the king so preoccupied, he might be able to smuggle her out of the palace. She laughed as one fey,then wept, and said: "Dost thou pray?"

"Not for myself," he said, and took her hand, kissing it. "And not to the Valar, but I will pray that thou findest peace, lady."

She turned her face up to his. "I thank thee." And. "I will remember thee."

He wanted to embrace her, carry her away, by force if necessary. She smiled as if she knew his thoughts, snatched away her hand and gathering her skirts, flitted away like a lovely ghost.

~~~

Thus Númenor receded behind the ship which bore Vanimore back to Middle Earth, and docked at Umbar from whence he prepared to ride north and east to Mordor.

Umbar was not an unpleasing place. The Nen Umbar, that great firth, was filled with ships packed to the boons with exotic spices, slaves and beasts from the jungles and plains of the south. Because of its location, and the mild rains from the sea, about it rose fruitful vineyards and villas tiled in earthen-red for the nobles and merchant princes.  
Always a cosmopolitan place, the faces of many races could be found there: tall and fair from Numenor, gold-skinned and dark-eyed tribesmen, and Men and women black as a moonless night from out of Far Harad.

Vanimore lingered a few days for horses and provisions, then took the trade road which rose through vine-cloaked hills, heading north.

He was uncertain what made him stop; the sudden scream of birds perhaps, as a great wheeling flock of gulls streamed inland, the snort and stamp of his mount, who balked and reared.  
Reflexively, he flung himself to the ground.

There came a noise which seemed to thrum through each sinew and ache in the bones. He did not know that the sea-bed between Númenor and Aman was ripped asunder, that the waters poured into the molten rock beneath, that the great island was overcome with earthquakes and titanic waves.  
Only the narrow inlet of the Nen Umbar saved it from complete destruction but a mighty wind howled out of the west, waves streamed like mountains of moving water toward the coast, and the sky became black as the smoke of destruction rose up.

Vanimórë was hurled off his feet by the slam of the wind, and was thrown through a darknes of now torrential rain. He felt ribs snap, was struck by flying debris which drew blood. Helpless in the teeth of this force, he could only be carried by it until he came up hard against something which arrested his progress. He lay half drowned as earthquakes tremored the ground, and storms tore the sky.

For many days the land lay under a pall, and people fled from Umbar further inland.

Vanimórë could not know what had happened, but as the waves had come out of the west, it did not take great intelligence to guess that Númenor was no more. But was Sauron destroyed? For some time he felt the frail tendrils of hope, but that presence in his mind, though quiescent, was not blotted out. Sauron was Ainu, and as such his spirit could never be wholly vanquished.

On the second night after, he had a vision of a green and curling wave climbing the slopes of Meneltarma, and a beautiful woman who desperately toiled toward the summit. For one moment saw in her eyes utter horror, and then peace. And the waters overcame her and swept her away...

And although the survivors of Akallabêth the Downfallen might, in after years look West in the yearning and desire of their souls Vanimórë, who had seen it in the days of its corruption, did not mourn for its passing. He would hold in memory its early glory, and the face of Tar-Miriel the queen whom, he hoped, had found freedom. Forever. ~

~~~


	16. The Last Great Alliance

  
~ Sauron had not imagined such complete destruction, although he had indeed believed that Ar-Pharazôn and his armament would be destroyed by the wrath of the Valar. On his throne in the Temple he had laughed, even as the land was rent and swallowed by the ocean, and although his physical form was destroyed, his spirit could not be; it rose from the abyss in darkness and returned on the wild winds to Endor and to Mordor.

In time, he built another form, took up the One Ring and planned War. For in the time he had dwelt in Númenor, the Elven Kingdom of Gil-galad had spread and grown mighty, reaching even over the Towers of Mist.  
For all Sauron's hope that the Edain had been destroyed, this was not so, for all those who remained faithful had gone aboard their ships with their families, and amidst the terror of the downfall, a western storm sped them eastward. They came to Lindon and to the Ethir Anduin and sailed up river and began to found kingdoms in memory of their lost land.

Arnor rose in the north, Gondor in the south, and many mighty fortresses were built at that time, even unto the Ephel Duath, where Minas Ithil, Tower of the Moon, was raised. At the foot of Mindolluin was Minas Arnor, Tower of the Setting Sun and Osgiliath upon Anduin, where under the Dome of Stars lay one of the seven Seeing Stones which Elendil had brought out of Númenor. With them he bore the fruit of Nimloth and planted two saplings in Minas Ithil and Minas Arnor, as once the White Tree had flourished and been revered in the Court of the King in Armenelos.

Vanimórë took his time returning to Mordor. He battled, hate burning in in him with every step northward when the summons came.

Sauron had given him as an plaything to a Mortal, and because he despised Ar-Pharazôn and loathed the usage, he had fought. He had been punished, for who might raise their hand against the mighty king? Then Sauron advised that he be so bound in chains and fetters that he might not move and the King found great pleasure in raping the helpless captive.

It could be – and had been – worse. He had expected nothing less, certainly not after he had released Maglor. Sauron would not forget that.

The grim Ephel Duath shadowed as he rode through the fair land to the west. At times he lay in fragrant groves, his hands burying into the earth as if seeking strength from it. Before others, he showed neither fear or horror or distaste, but when alone, the memories assaulted him like murderers. He thrust them into some deep place in his mind and continued on, coming at last to the Morannon.

Sauron's mind entered his and he braced, resisting until resistance had no meaning, and went down on his knees.  
''My lord,'' he looked up with that glinting, glittering smile of defiance. ''It has been too long, although I suppose having an island collapse on one would cause even the mightiest of the Maia some discomfort.''

A hand closed on his shoulder, there was the sudden stench of charring flesh. For a moment, Vanimórë saw only blackness, felt only pain.

''It is good to see thee, too, my son.'' The hand jerked back the long hair, seeking the agony in the eyes. Sauron kissed him lingeringly. ''Thou hast work to do.'' With a laugh, he turned away. ''A blow must be dealt against these survivors of lost Númenor who dare to build their towers even upon the very borders of my land, and the damned Elves of Lindon. Thou wilt return south, and rally my people there for war.''

Vanimórë set his teeth. ''If that is thy will, lord.''

Sauron nodded, raked him with cold eyes. ''Thou doth think thyself unhumbled. It is almost amusing. Thou canst not see thyself as others do: a slave to be used. Ah well... my Lord broke thy mind long ago. All there is left for thee is madness. And even that will fail thee in the end; thou wilt see truly what thou art. Nothing.'' He snapped his fingers. ''Orders await thee. Go.''

The eyes on his back burned like gems under the long lashes. Then Vanimórë bowed, turned and walked from the chamber.

***

In the year 3434 of the Second Age, after long battle on Dagorlad, the hard Battle Plain, before the Morannon, Sauron's forces were pushed back into Mordor.  
These were the days of the Last Alliance, and it was said that such a host had not been seen since the War of Wrath. Elendil the Tall was there, and his sons Isildur and Anarion, and Gil galad, high King of the Elves who shone like a star in his gear of war, and Glorfindel the Beloved, and Elrond son of Eärendil. The blood of Fëanor was also there in the person of Tindómion, son of Maglor.

***

''There is no victory here.'' Blooded and bright eyed, Vanimórë drew off his concealing black helm and shook clotted hair. ''We need more Men from the east.''

''Art thou not a warrior?'' Sauron hissed, gripping the blood-smeared face in his hand and clenching until the jaw creaked.

''I am but one, my lord,'' the reply was dry. ''I cannot be everywhere.''

He had been very careful to be hardly anywhere, in fact. And Sauron knew it. On the field of battle he had been defending, sustaining wounds, but avoiding giving them unless there were no other way. It was not how he had been trained; he was made as a weapon, but he would be damned and truly before he took his kindreds blood again.

Thus began the siege of Barad-dûr.

'' Why not fight, my Lord? Go out into battle?'' Vanimórë taunted. "I could be thy trainer, as thou hast so often been mine."

The blow snapped his neck sideways. ''I do not deign to show myself before this rabble of the West, _yet._'' Sauron said. ''Now go; go through the Eastern Gap. Bring an army to fall on the rear of the Alliance.''

_ Yes, it **sounds** easy, _ thought Vanimórë, as he left the tower, but he knew he was hardly in time. He had planned it. The armies of the Elves and Men had begun to invest Barad-dûr, armor shining like silver under that ashen sky.

_Not yet, he said. Why not yet? What is he planning?_

Vanimórë did not come to the Eastern Gap, and the lands of Rhun and Khand.

Turning back to watch, he was assailed suddenly by a flight of arrows. One took him in the shoulder, the blackened chain mail armor he wore no match for those lethal tips. With a brutal jerk of his hand he pulled the shaft through his flesh, cursing vividly. The rest of the arrow storm, he realized, had been to halt his progress, and had struck the ground behind him; Elves did not miss a target so close.

''Put up,'' came a voice like silver-steel, as an Elf stepped before him, bowstring pulled back. ''Or die.''

_I thank thee, _ Vanimórë said fervently to whatever power had arranged his capture. ~

~~~


	17. Never Was A Prisoner More Willing

 

~ This was clearly expected to be a long and arduous siege.  
Well beyond the range of the missiles flung from Barad-dûr, were set encampments for the warriors, tents for the injured, kitchens to prepare food brought in by supply trains from Gondor, or game trapped and caught in Ithilien.

Vanimórë sensed the arrows trained on his back each step he walked. His swords, the dirks he carried in his boots and thigh sheath had been taken from him when he was captured. Eyes followed him; they thought him a Man in Sauron's service, for there were many.

  
A great pavilion rose before him; from the roof, limp, but brilliant in the grey air, hung the banner of the High King.

Gil-galad was not alone as he stood at the trestle table, a Man was likewise looking over the map laid out, and nearby was a tall Elf, his great fall of bronze hair worn in the antique fashion of triple braids.

_ Ereinion, scion of Kings. I saw thee in Maglor's mind as a youth...a high name and a cold one. _  
The Fëanorion's mind, had not been hard to read, all memories limned with fire, brilliant as a tapestry wrought by the fingers of Elven maids, stained with blood. _Thou didst love thy father. And loved, like another father, Maedhros. He gave thee the name Gil-galad for thine eyes.*_

He had seen images of a cool, northern land, of a mighty fortress upon a cold, wind-scoured hill, vivid emotions, love, and sorrow, and through all, an everlasting and aching grief.

_Ereinion_

The eyes for which the king had been named widened a little as he heard, or imagined he did, a whisper on the cusp of his mind. An vision rose up clear before him, those beloved and short lived times when he was a child, before he was sent south, after Dagor Bragollach.

******

_ A spring day, green and sweet...The night before he had dreamed of something ominous and terrible: a mountain that spat fire and a tower tall as a mountain and as inimical. He was eleven years old, and he walked with his father, feeling an utter contentment at being with the one person he adored. Then he looked up and saw riders approaching, two with hair black as his own, one with tresses which the sun flamed to copper and fire-lit bronze._

_''Who is that, adar?'' he asked._

_Maedhros, it had been, riding to Hithlum for the first time since Fingon's wedding, and two of his brothers with him, Maglor and Caranthir._

_A long fingered,hand touched his face and a rich, beautiful voice said:  
''Gil-galad...'' _

Gil-galad briefly closed his eyes, wondering why he should be assaulted by those memories now. But his dreams had been true; he had seen Orodruin, he had seen Barad-dûr. And he knew that his death lay here.

''Sire, this Man was taken slipping away from the Tower toward the east. We have disarmed him. He carries no messages, unless verbally.''

Gil-galad nodded, half saw, from the corner of his eye, Tindómion staring at the arrival, black brows drawn into a frown.

''Dost thou understand our tongue, man?'' he asked. ''Take off thy helm, let us see thy face.''

A wince shot through his wounded shoulder as the prisoner offed the concealing helm. His hair was bound back in one thick plait, and swung to his knees. The eyes of those watching suddenly blazed with astonishment.

''An Elf,'' Gil-galad said; half a question. The face, the height and build all declared him _Golodh_, save for the eyes which were of a colour the King had never seen in Elf or Man, deep purple, with a hard, brilliant glitter.

''An escapee?'' Morgoth had captured all the Elves he could to labor in Angband. Perhaps Sauron did the same.

''I am no-one, Sire,'' the prisoner said flatly.

For any other Elf who appeared to have fled from captivity, Gil-galad would have felt a horrified pity, but those strange eyes held a warning against compassion. He had not the look of a beaten slave. Surrounded by weapons, unarmed, he held himself as straight as a prince, and he spoke in an antique Sindarin, as if he had learned the language from a scroll.

''Thou must posses a name.''

''I am called _Slave,_ for that is what I am, sire.''

''Sauron has twisted him,'' it was Elendil who spoke. ''He is mad. It is in his eyes.''

The High King stepped closer, felt the man brace himself as his armor was unbuckled. Beneath it he wore only a tunic, long breeches laced at the calf and thrust into black boots. When the tunic was removed swirling tattoos were revealed – and the mark of the Red Eye stamped across the base of his spine. Gil-galad murmured something. Elendil swore.  
"Mad...how not? Branded by Sauron."

There was no other explanation; no Elf would willingly serve Sauron. Although in the battle of Dagorlad, every kindred and every bird and beast had been divided the Elves had, without exception, fought on the side of the Alliance. This Elf was had indeed been driven mad, Gil-galad thought, taught to know himself only as a slave.

''Where didst thou think to flee to?'' he asked, quite gently.

''I was heading toward the Eastern Gap, Sire.''

''Didst thou not consider coming to us, to thy kin?''

A mirthless smile curved the luscious mouth.  
''I have no kin. I am a slave. I am Sauron's. I have fought for him and slain Elves, does that not make me...Kinslayer?'' He glanced at Tindómion, whose eyes flashed wide with shock.

''Under duress, with thy mind undone and warped.'' Gil-galad stepped back. ''I know not if thou canst be healed, but this matter must be sifted. How long hast thou been enslaved to he Dark Lord?''

''Too long to be healed, Sire. It is far too late for that.''  
Suddenly he moved. With a blurring speed that startled them he bounced down, kicking out one foot, taking the legs out from under the archer, and flipped backward. He landed on his feet, perfectly balanced, and laughed.

''Dost thou think I could not have escaped had I wanted to?'' he asked amusedly. ''I choose not to kill Elves in this war if I can avoid it, that is not to say I will not. I can tell thee nothing, High King. All thou canst do for me is chain me; I am bound to Sauron's mind. He will know I am here. He will see everything I see.''

''No !'' Gil-galad raised a hand as Tindómion drew his sword. ''Hold! He did not kill. Restrain him, but do not harm him further. Make him as comfortable as possible, and give him food and drink. See to that wound. I will talk to him soon.''

As he was bound and lead away Vanimórë turned, and it was at Tindómion he looked. His smile, the expression in his eyes, was disquieting, as if he were remembering something sensuously pleasant.  
''I will tell thee one thing, while I may: Sauron sent me out to pass East and bring men out of Rhun and Khand to march against thee. Rather fortunate that I was captured, was it not?''

And at that moment he went utterly stiff, impaled upon a lance of pain. His eyes closed, his muscles clenched against agony, but no sound came from his lips. Then, as if released, his legs gave way and he dropped to his knees.

''I am bound to his mind,'' he said. And, "I was not supposed to be captured." But his lips curved up in defiance and pleasure.

''Blessed Eru!'' Gil-galad murmured in horrified understanding. ''Let him rest now.''

It was simple. As a prisoner, Vanimórë could not aid Sauron. Whatever the outcome of this siege, for as long as he remained a prisoner of the Alliance, he could not be used against them.

As the familiar pain slowly ebbed, he found his mind turning to other things. He had looked into the eyes of the bronze-haired Elf and seen Maglor. Yet in Maglor there had been no knowledge of a son. And he _was_ his son, undoubtedly; it was all over him like a scent. That was the one Sauron had experimented on in Ost-in-Edhil, giving him a ring for Gil-galad which would have brought the King under his influence. The experiment had failed, though, and the ring been destroyed.

_Is that how Sauron knew Maglor, I wonder, through his son? _  
Intriguing...Vanimórë knew the Maglor still lived. Bonds forged in pain, in pleasure cannot easily be broken. He knew that only too well. Between the torturer and the tortured, the prisoner and guard, the helpless and the protagonist, strange spiritual entanglements bloom.

Should he tell the son? No, he decided. Or not yet. Some things were better kept a secret. In any case, he thought with a faint smile, who save he and Maglor would ever truly understand? ~

  


  
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Chapter End Notes:   
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The story of Tindómion, son of Maglor and the Arc of Fire, connecting three generations of the Houses of Fëanor and Fingolfin is told in Lords of the Light,

  



	18. Starlight, Silver Light

 

  
~ ''Istelion?''

The Fëanorion turned back at Gil-galad's voice speaking his gift-name softly.  
''Why did he look at thee thus?''

''I know not.'' Tindómion shook his head.

''Hast thou seen him before?''

''No. Yet...'' He sheathed his sword, and poured wine. "No."

''Thou wouldst not have forgotten those eyes. I would think him Ainu but for his slavery.''

The tent flap opened, bringing Anor through the gloom vented forth by Orodruin.

''Not Ainu, Gil,'' Glorfindel said. ''I must speak to that one, later.''

Tindómion handed him wine. In the great tent Glorfindel's aura glowed. It was impossible for his presence not to lift the heart even here, and anyhow, Gil-galad owed him a great deal. It was from Tindómion's mother Fanari Penlodiel, he had first learned what he had long suspected: that his father had loved Maedhros in ways that went deeper than close kinship. But it was Glorfindel whom had told him that, naming the One as witness, Maedhros and Fingon had been married at Lake Mithrim. It had been known by very few people, Fingolfin had been one, Maglor and Glorfindel the others.

And that meant that Fingon's marriage to Gil-galad's mother Rosriel had not been valid. Her son had felt only relief, though it made him bastard. Damn the Laws of the Valar ! It had been a bitter, loveless union of expediency.

_Scion of Kings,_ Rosriel had called her son, all pride and ambition. It had been Maedhros who had called him _Gil-galad,_ and with love.

''Morgoth captured many Elves and set them to labor in Angband,'' he said. ''Perchance this is one caught by Sauron in latter times.''

''It is possible. He is a warrior. I saw him fighting on Dagorlad against Elendil's men, black armor. I thought he was no Man.'' Glorfindel's mouth was set hard. He cast a look over his shoulder, though the tent walls concealed the Dark Tower. ''We will see _that_ come down, Gil. If there are any more prisoners, we will release them. And was not Angband itself unroofed?''

''There are no Valar here, Golden One,'' Gil-galad commented wryly. ''Yet with the _valor_ we have here I believe thee.''  
From outside came the ever present distant rumbling of the volcano. Glorfindel had said it seemed somehow, to mirror the Dark Lord's mood; all had seen how the Maia's skills had harnessed the massive energy of Orodruin.

''A deathly place...'' Gil-galad murmured.  
_And my dying place. I have known since we entered the Morannon. This is the place of my dreams, which has always waited for me. Finwë, Fëanor, Fingolfin, my own father. We all go down in blood and fire in the end. _

''Gil?'' He came out of his introspection to see Tindómion's silver eyes on him, Glorfindel had left to speak with the strange prisoner.  
''Shall I play for thee?''

His great harp had been brought into the pavilion, for in the brief times when he rested the High King found peace in the music. Tindómion had inherited his father's skill with harp and the same golden voice, and was in all ways a true-stamped image of the House of Fëanor. Save for the bronze mane of hair, Gil-galad could have believed it was Maglor whose slender fingers coaxed beauty from the harp-strings. And sometimes in a gesture or the lift of his head, when lamplight or slanting sunlight caught the red in Tindómion's hair, it was Maedhros he saw.  
As for his father, it needed nothing to bring him back, his beauty and love, his strength and valor. And, as the years bled into one another and rolled on, wave after wave, running towards a distant shore, he knew they brought him closer to Fingon's fate, to his own death in battle.

He had known the moment Fingon had died – known long before messengers, travel worn and grieving, had come to Eglarest to tell of the Dagor Nirnaeth Arnoediad. He had felt his father die, and through his own anguish had known Maedhros must be rent apart by agony. When the refugees of Gondolin came down Sirion and he was made High King of the Noldor, he sent messengers to try and find Maedhros. But those who found him said he was fell and half mad and would not even see them; they had been sent away by Maglor, bearing words of regret. When the sons of Fëanor had fallen upon the Havens of Sirion, he had not arrived in time, for he had to sail from the isle of Balar, whence his far sighted eyes had descried smoke on the mainland. He had failed one he loved as a father and when, after the War of Wrath, he learned that Maedhros had flung himself into a chasm of fire...

''How dost thou know this?'' he had cried to the strange Elf with the silvery hair who had come to him. But the eyes were not Elven, holding a preternatural power and sadness in their depths. Compassion he saw there – and regret.

''It was witnessed by the Valar, Gil-galad,'' the messenger had said and bowed, leaving the High King alone with unassuagable sorrow.

So much lost. And the High King feared much more would be lost ere the end of this siege.

Tindómion had been an unexpected gift to him, though the tale of his begetting was a tragic one. Fingon had loved Maedhros, and Maglor, and here was a son of Maglor come into his household. Unwillingly at first. Gil-galad had seen the tautness around the firm mouth, the challenge in the silver eyes which had faded to friendship and burgeoned into...love.

Gil-galad came to learn of Tindómion's youthful oath to find his father, no matter how long it might take, and recognized in him the passionate fire of his blood. And Tindómion not as temperate as his father; Glorfindel said that he resembled, more than any-one, his grand-sire. After the death of Celebrimbor, it comforted Gil galad that that the House of Fëanor was not altogether expunged from Middle-earth, even thought the very name carried with it a curse. And Tindómion lived with that, also.

He searched for Maglor, although seeing the potential for violence within him, Gil-galad made this deliberately difficult, giving him more duties, more responsibilities, sending him to Nenuial, or later, Ost-in-Edhil. He feared that if father and son ever met that one would kill the other, for melded with the longing to find his father, Tindómion hated him for his rape of Fanari, and desired to avenge it.

Gil-galad and Tindómion became close, bound by ties which had existed long before their births. The son of Maglor swore his fealty and sword to the High King and dwelt in the palace in Lindon. This pleased Rosriel not at all; to her, he brought back too clearly the faces of the Fëanorions who had corrupted her husband, and even her son.

One evening while walking upon the lawns, with Eärendil so bright above that it cast shadows upon the grass, Gil-galad had looked at his companion and seen it's radiance catch his eyes, turning them to molten mithril, and he had named him _ Istelion,_ 'son of silver light'.  
When Annatar came to Lindon, Gil-galad had sent him from his realm with an escort, one of which was Tindómion and the other, Elrond. And Annatar had deeply disturbed Tindómion, then and after. When Sauron's forces swept through Eriador, backing the Elves beyond the River Lhûn, Tindómion fought beside his King, shoulder to shoulder. _Starfire and Wildfire,_ they were called.  
And it was Gil-galad who came to know when his companion was visited by the dreams which were so much more: they were memories of a life which was not his, fragments bleeding from his father's tormented mind. The look in the silver eyes as the thrall was lead away reminded him of when he had first witnessed Tindómion assaulted by the visions that chained him inescapably to Maglor, whom he hated – and desperately wanted to love. ~

He reached out his hand, and Tindómion raised his head, fingers poised over the strings. Fire, unassuaged and unassuagable, passed between them in the humming silence.  
"The prisoner," Gil-galad said, as they touched. "He made thee think of thy father, did he not?"

Tindómion bent his head.  
"Yes," he admitted. "And I do not know why." ~


	19. I Dream His Life

 

 

"I still envy thee thy dreams," Gil-galad said.

"No," Tindómion's fingers laced with his and clung as their eyes clung.  
Too close. Not close enough.

  
**~ Lindon ~ Early Second Age.~**

  
The spring afternoon was drowsy; in the gardens apple blossom dusted the greensward like late snow and the air was pale honey, rich and warm. It was a time when some Elves found rest for many, loving the stars, did not sleep at night.

Stretched upon a long couch in his bedchamber, Tindómion stirred. His mind was not walking in the sweet paths of childhood memories; it was plunged into a world long gone in fire.

The tap on the outer door went unheeded and after a long moment, the door swung open. Gil-galad and Elrond entered.

''Istelion?''  
Gil-galad found the room empty and spoke his companion's name. A muttered word caught his attention from the bed-chamber, and without hesitation he crossed and pushed wide the adjoining door.

''Father !'' Clear this time, in grief. Then: ''Maedhros !''

Gil-galad stepped to the settle. Tindómion's head shook from side to side on the cushions.

''Istelion?'' he murmured, and saw the dreaming face break into grief.

''I swear it,'' Tindómion cried.

***

The host of Fëanor marched up the Firth of Drengist which pierced the Hills of Ered Lomin, and came to the lake of Mithrim.

The scent of the air seemed wild and free to Noldor as they rode under the stars, and if there were hearts which repented of leaving Fingolfin in Araman – and there were – these feelings they kept hidden from their Lords.

Maedhros rode at the head of his host, his face as shuttered as a closed book, stern and implacable. Maglor, beside him cast a glance of sympathy at his elder brother. Maedhros was suffering grievously; he had abandoned his lover, expecting ships to be sent back for Fingolfin's people. He was the only one who had not set torch to the swan-ships.

The lake reflected stars, and a sweet air breathed from its surface as the host stopped their march and began to make their camp. Pavilions sprang up like gigantic flowers.

What none of them knew was that Morgoth, roused by the tumult of the ships burning and knowing Fëanor, his greatest enemy was come, sent his own army through the passes of the Ered Wethrin, and assailed the camp before all was ready.

The first Maglor knew of it was the thunder of heavy feet on the earth, and the snarl of evil voices, the clash of weapons.

''To horse !'' his father cried, and all around him warriors mounted, drew their swords and hefted their spears. With Fëanor at the forefront, they plunged into the affray.

A black, misshapen face leered before Maglor, and he decapitated the snarling head with one sweep of his blade. These were orcs, although the Noldor had never encountered them before. Their twisted shape, their heavy, saw-toothed weapons, their armor, were as unlike the shining swords and mail of the Noldor as black from white. A bitter hate and revulsion kindled in the hearts of the Exiles as, like a sea wave crashing to shore, the vanguard of the Noldor crashed into them.

They were strong and swift, the light of their eyes like flame, and they were deadly in their wrath; in fear and dismay the orcs turned and fled before them.  
The Noldor followed them, hunting them through the passes of the Mountains of Shadow, and into the great plain beyond. There Morgoth's hordes were joined by those that had passed south into the Vale of Sirion and beleaguered Cirdan the Shipwright at the Falas. But they were only caught in the ruin, for Celegorm, on orders from his father, waylaid them and drove them into the Fen of Serech.

Ten days that battle lasted, and it was called the _Dagor-nuin-Giliath,_ the Battle Under Stars. Of all the hosts Morgoth had sent south into Beleriand naught but a handful returned, and Morgoth, on his deep throne was dismayed.

But Fëanor would not halt and regroup. He was fey, his hatred of the Enemy blazing, and he pressed on after the remnant of the orcs toward Angband. He drew alone, far ahead of his warriors and sons. The fleeing orcs saw this and turned to face him, fearful, yet hating the light in his face and eyes. And Morgoth sent out his Balrogs.

Dor Daedeloth that barren land was named, and there Fëanor fought alone. The Balrog's fire burned him, he was wounded but it seemed nothing could touch his own flame. He slew, and his eyes were incandescent.

His sons heard the battle even over the thunder of their horses hooves as they swept up, taking in the sight: the great demons, both shadow and ember light, their fathers sword burning white and a huge blade, limned with flame, rising. There was a crack as from behind, a whip were cast about Fëanor's body, pinning his arms to his sides.  
The sword came down in one sweep.

Fëanor was directly under it. It shattered his shoulder, and he fell. Maedhros, cursing, drove his stallion toward them, Maglor hefted a spear and threw it. There was a roar of anger and pain, as the dark shapes turned and swept back to Angband.

''Father !'' Maglor's voice was untuned with pain and shock.

Maedhros wheeled, leaped from his mount and came to his father. His lips parted soundlessly at the sight of the broken body, the burning wounds and called to his brothers: ''Set him on my horse !''

Fëanor was conscious, but his white teeth were set, and he did not utter a sound until, as they drew near Eithel Sirion, he whispered:  
''Stop.''

They laid him down, and there was not one of his sons who did not weep, for they saw death in the blazing eyes.

''Morgoth, I curse thee, I curse thee, I curse thee, and my curse will follow thee through eternity ! One day I will meet thee!'' Fëanor hissed then jerked violently in overwhelming pain.

"Father rest," Maglor choked. "Do not speak." "Damnation, I am dying ! Listen to me !" Blood ran in scarlet streaks from Fëanor's mouth. His hand, it's grip still like a bench-vise, closed around Maedhros' arm. ''Hold to the Oath, or there is nothing. Swear it!''

Maedhros nodded. ''Peace, _atar,_ I so swear to thee, rest now.'' But his voice was ragged. He could not believe, none of them could believe, that Fëanor was dying.

''Canafinwë! Swear !'' Blood bubbled through the words.

"I swear it." Maglor swallowed tears like acid.

Fëanor's eyes closed. Maedhros looked at Maglor across him, and their eyes blazed, seeming to reflect a silver fire. Behind them, Caranthir cursed, and Maglor felt his hand, restring on his father's breast, grow hot. Smoke whisped up from his reddened armor; tendrils of fire bloomed. "What?" Celegorm whispered. And they threw themselves back in horror as Fëanor's very body exploded into flame.

''Father !'' Maglor cried. _Oh, father._

No cairn for Fëanor, no burial. His spirit of fire consumed him as he died. His sons were left looking at ash which was blown away by a west wind.

Their hearts were shattered, they were dumb with grief, rent by a dislocating sense of utter disbelief. Emptiness yawned within their souls.

''Maedhros, Maglor." It was Amras who spoke brokenly. ''What must we do?''

Maedhros rose to his feet, his eyes tear-sheened. He looked at Maglor for a long moment.

''We swore. Twice now we have sworn. We hold to our oath,'' He turned away to his horse.

They had left some to guard the camp beside Mithrim,and as they rode up the guards came towards them with three strangers. They were tall and clad in long grey cloaks. At first, the speech between them was not easy because the tongue of the Calaquendi in Aman and the Moriquendi in Middle Earth had long been severed, but Elves were ever skilled at tongues.

''They believe we came hither to their aid,'' Maglor said to Maedhros as they sat in his great tent.

''Perhaps we did,'' Maedhros sipped the wine one of the Grey Elves had brought as a token of friendship. It tasted of berries, was rich on the tongue.

They had learned of the power of Elu Thingol, king in Doriath and of his Queen, Melian the Maia, of the Girdle of enchantment that was set about their Kingdom. The Grey Elves had departed to bear the news south, believing that their mighty kin had come out of the west in the very teeth of time to aid them in their fight against Morgoth. More, they surmised that the Valar had sent them for this very purpose.

Maedhros looked into the brazier and a bitter smile curved his mouth.  
''Emissaries of the Valar!'' He threw the empty winecup across the tent and put his hands over his eyes.

The tent flap was drawn back and they looked up.  
''What, Caranthir?''

Their brother's eyes blazed with excitement and fury co-mingled.  
''Come and see this!''

On the edge of the camp was a group of Great Orcs and one Balrog. They were surrounded by a ring of drawn swords but made no move of aggression, though their eyes shouted hate at the Elves. The Balrog's laval gaze fixed upon Maedhros, and a voice of twisting darkness spoke, offering terms even unto the surrender of one of the Silmarils, if Maedhros, son of the mighty Fëanor, would come and parlay with Melkor. Maglor was filled with the greatest rage he had ever known, that those who had slain his father now came here, to the grieving sons.

"The Oath." Maedhros flung an arm about him. "We swore." He gestured to his brothers and gathered them in his tent.

''We feign to agree to this,'' he said. ''Morgoth cannot be trusted, so we will take great strength.''

They armed themselves and went forth to the place appointed, but Morgoth sent the more, and he sent more Balrogs. The ambush was short and fierce. Maedhros had commanded his brothers to stay back and Maglor was sworn to enforce that. Maedhros was far from foolish – and perhaps a premonition came to him, for he took knights of his own household but none of his kin.

"If aught happens, Maglor, thou must lead our people," he had said. "And thou _wilt not_ deal with Morgoth whatsoever comes to pass! I will have thy word !"

Fighting like a demon himself, he watched all his guard slain and then he was taken alive, killing and wounding even as he was bound until he could not even twitch, and was carried away to Angband.

What there befell him at Morgoth's hands, he said little after. He was beaten down and forced to kneel, degraded and shamed and greviously hurt, his hair sheared from him. Defiant still and cursing Morgoth, he was taken and chained him by his right arm on Thangorodrim, hanging from a spike driven deep into the stone.

Maglor, reeling under this fresh horror, came back to Mithrim. From his tent rose the clash of voices in passionate argument that did not abate until one of the sentries came at a run with the news that a great host in arms was approaching from the west.

''My lords, they fly the banners of the House of Fingolfin !''

''Sweet Eru, _Fingolfin_?'' Maglor stared. ''They must have crossed the Ice !''

''They come armed, my lord.''

''Let them!'' Celegorm flashed, his hand going to the hilt of his sword.

''No,'' Maglor over-rode him. ''No. Dost thou not see? How can we meet them in battle now? Father is...gone...Maedhros is...'' He closed his eyes. ''Thou wilt obey me, as Maitimo so commanded. I swore to him. We will withdraw around the lake, to the southern shore.''

''We give way before them?'' Demanded Celegorm, his eyes burning.

''Yes, we give way before them !'' Maglor's voice filled the pavilion. ''I will ride out to meet them!''

Fingolfin's host were ready for battle; they had suffered grevious losses in crossing the Helcaraxe and Fingolfin held that the sons were just as guilty of betrayal as his half-brother. There was a heavy, fraught silence, weighted with such bitter accusation and rage that the air quivered with it as Maglor rode forth. But Fingolfin listened as Maglor, his rich voice tempered by grief told that Fëanor was dead and Maedhros taken by Morgoth.

The people of Fingolfin and Finrod were shocked, their thirst for vengeance momentarily arrested, although some there were who judged that Fëanor had deserved death and were not saddened. Fingolfin however, went into his tent and grieved in bitter pain for a waste of so much brilliance and passion, for he had loved his half-brother, hated him and desired him and could not imagine a world without him. Fingon, his face blanched, rode after Maglor and called out to him.

Maglor swung back his mount, his silver eyes hard and somber.  
''He is not dead?'' Fingon demanded. ''Thou art sure?'' Every dreadful vision which Maglor himself imagined was mirrored in the eyes of his cousin.

Maglor dismounted lightly, his face was stern, an overlay for fear and deepest grief. He shook his head.

''He is not dead...yet..These terms we have from Morgoth the Accursed: he will not release my brother unless we swear to go back into the west or depart from Beleriand and go far into the south. Thou knowest we cannot and will not; we are bound. And whatsoever we do, Morgoth would never release Maedhros. He has chained him to Thangorodrim. He would have us know that !'' He took a controlling breath.  
_I am in so much pain. I never believed there could be this much pain..._  
''We have returned our own message to him, as Maedhros would have us do, as he made me swear!''

''He will kill him, soon or late !" Fingon blazed. "Or he will die left in that place ! We saw the Hells !''

''Dost thou think I do not know that?'' Maglor cried, control leaving him. ''We are bound by the Oath ! Maedhros would not have us break it for him! He would never break it himself. We swore again to our father as he lay dying. And Maedhros commanded me to lead our people if aught went amiss. I _swore_ to him I would not treat with Morgoth ! And I curse myself for it.'' He swung away and Fingon grabbed his shoulder.

''This is _Maedhros!_'' he whispered intensely.

Maglor's voice was strung taut as a bowstring.  
''Dost thou think I would not give my life for his? Or take his place? He is my brother!'' He wrenched away and leaped to the saddle.

***

"Istelion!" The silver eyes focused as Tindómion sat up. There was a mist of perspiration on his brow, and for a moment, he seemed not to recognize who stood over him. Then hot blood bloomed across his cheeks.

''Forgive me, Sire. I dreamed...''

''What didst thou dream?''

Tindómion pushed himself from the bed, his eyes were still unworldly, and Gil-galad caught him, feeling tremors pass through the hard muscles. The burnished bronze hair was unbraided, it fell across his face as he bowed his head.

''I saw... I think I was my father,'' the words tumbled out like flood water. ''I saw a man with eyes like gems...''  
He drew himself away, reached for the wine that Elrond held out to him silently. ''I saw demons of fire...there were many of them. I was Maglor, sire...I..._was Maglor,_ seeing through his eyes. I saw them kill Fëanor...'' He drank and wine splashed down his tunic. "Am I mad? " He whispered. ''Fëanor spoke to me and I felt the grief at his death and he vanished into fire and ash...Fëanor...am I mad?"

"No, Istelion." Gil-galad braced him. "Thou art thy father's son and his soul-bond to thee is a strong one. He knows thee not and yet still something within him reaches to thee. He must still live.'' his heart ached both for Maglor and his son.

A shudder passed through Tindómion. ''I saw Fingon,'' he murmured, ''I saw Eldar and knew them, though they have long died...''

''I could envy thee that dream,'' Gil-galad said, achingly, ''To see my father again....and others I loved.''

''Gil...do not envy me...for there was blood and fire...and a breaking of the heart.'' ~

~~~

** Chapter End Notes: **

Although I know that at the time of their arrival in Endor, the Noldor would still have used their Quenya names, for simplicities sake, I have used the Sindarin version as in the Silmarillion.


	20. What Art Thou?

  
~ He felt a touch of power and drew himself from the place he sent his mind when he needed to rest. There was nowhere he could go where Sauron was not present, but long ago he had discovered in himself the Elvish ability to concentrate on the beauty of one thing: the curve of a grass blade, the fractured rainbow light of a dewdrop, the delicate shading and veins of a flower. He had found beauty in many unexpected places and had learned to absorb all he saw. And perhaps one had to know dark to appreciate light as passionately as he did.

The interior of the tent seemed to gleam with radiance. It emanated from the warrior who stood before him. Gilt-gold hair was caught back in thick braids; the eyes burned blue ice at him. Vanimórë knew who this was. He saw past those eyes to memories of fire and death.

Glorfindel.

From his cross-legged position, Vanimórë rose. To Sauron, and Morgoth before him he was compelled to kneel, but there were some that merited that courtesy.

''Lord Glorfindel,'' he said.

Glorfindel though to see madness, Vanimórë knew. An elusive smile deepened in his eyes.

''What _dost_ thou see?'' he teased.

  
What Glorfindel saw startled him. He had said the prisoner was not Ainu, but there _was_ power here, a supple, steely strength battened over dreadful memories.

"What art thou?'' Glorfindel murmured almost to himself, wondering if Sauron could cloak some lesser, dark spirit in a pleasing form.

''I am nothing, Lord Glorfindel.'' Vanimórë laughed softly. ''And I caution thee, Sauron will know what passes between us.''

Glorfindel stepped to one side and lifted the sheaf of black hair, seeing the Red Eye glaring from pale skin. His eyes narrowed as he touched it, feeling his fingertips tingle.

"That is nothing." The voice held amusement. "It merely marks me as his. No he sees through me." He tapped his head.

Glorfindel traced the black tattoos. Under them the muscles were hard, the skin soft. There were no scars, only the Eye, and those black tattoos.

''Careful, thou wilt drive me distracted.''

Glorfindel cast him an interrogative look, and moved back to stand before the captive.

''I hear that thou wouldst not kill any Elves unless it was necessary. Gorthaur punished thee for that, did he not? How long has he had thee? What is thy House?''

''I am Houseless, lord,'' the man shrugged, folded his arms. ''But even a slave may posses his own mind.'' A smile glinted.

''So art thou slave, or spy?'' Glorfindel blazed as he caught Vanimórë's chin in his hand, and gazed into the violet eyes.

''Of course I am a spy, albeit unwillingly. I cannot prevent Sauron seeing anything, so ensure I see and hear nothing useful.''  
His body jerked then, stiffened. Pain scored his eyes, molded into the bones of his face, the clench of his hands. His head shook as if in rebuttal and then he was flung back. A mist of perspiration gleamed on the pale flesh. His eyes opened, and they held the glint of red flame. Glorfindel's hand went to his sword-hilt.

''He wants me to attack thee, Golden One.'' The fire faded, the glittering color returned. He raised his bound hands, then crooked a brow, and his muscles swelled. Even as the bindings snapped with a puff of fibers, Sarambar touched his throat.

''Then try,'' Glorfindel said coldly.

Vanimórë moved his head a little, the shining blade piercing his skin, as he deliberately and slowly forced himself a little deeper upon the point of the weapon. Blood trailed in a thin line down his chest.

''I choose not to.''

The sword withdrew. Glorfindel stared at him fiercely.  
"What in the Hells art thou? Why can I not see all of thy thoughts?"

''I do not think that thou wouldst like to see all of my thoughts,'' Vanimórë settled his hands passively across his stomach like the figure on some mortal sepulcher. ''Bind me with steel. Ropes will not hold me. They would hold _thee_, would they?''

Glorfindel knelt. ''I promise thee this, whatever, whosoever thou art, I will discover it !''

''Perhaps thou wilt if thou dost use the right means of persuasion...?'' A smile bent the other's mouth, then calmness glazed his face once more. ''I choose not to touch thee, and I think none of thee would be easy to slay. But _he_ wishes me to attempt it. So bind me with chains and steel. And that is all I will tell thee.''

For a moment, Glorfindel watched him, his brows drawn close, and then he lifted the tent flap, and called for guards to bring manacles.

***

Seven years that siege lasted. And it was a bloody, merciless siege, the death count rising each day.

Vanimórë longed to take up his arms and join the armies of the Alliance, but such a thing was impossible. All his dreams were impossible. And so he drank up the magnificence of the Elves like a beggar who cannot enter a palace, but might look through a window at people far beyond his reach.

Seven years...

He was propelled violently from sleep by a sensation that that shocked through his bones and blood, and came to his feet, hearing the sounds of battle.

_He comes forth. Bloody Hells, I never believed he would !_ He laughed then, shouldering aside the flaps of the tent.

''Return to thy place,'' snapped the guard left to watch him.

Vanimórë raised his eyes. Across the leagues, the volcano was rumbling, sending ash sifting down like grey snow.

''He comes.''

''Who comes?'' the guard demanded.

''Why, the Dark Lord.'' Vanimórë cast him a dry look. ''For the first time in this war, he comes forth himself.'' His muscles grew taut, swelling under the steel links.  
''Release me. Thou hast orders from Glorfindel, I believe.''

The soldier found his eyes seized and held. About him the encampment was emptying, the hosts of the Last Alliance surging to the onset of battle. He nodded, unlocked the manacles and ran to join the battle.

Vanimórë ran, reaching the sheaves of dead, and without thinking, picked up a fallen sword, Elven-make, long and slender. A fey thrill pounded in his blood as he raced on, breaching the heaving melee of war, finding himself absorbed by clamor of battle, the too-familiar stench of blood and entrails, the clang of weapon on shield.

He saw....his father.

Armored so that not even his face showed, surrounded by a fell light, Sauron came forth. So much hate rose in Vanimórë that he killed without thinking, even as his mind cried out a warning. He saw Gil-galad shining in the gloom, Tindómion near him, before both were separated. He saw Glorfindel, his sword shearing armor and bone in black sprays as he ducked under a lethal down sweep of a great axe, sent the great orc over his back, turned and plunged the point of the blade through the throat. Spinning back, he saw the High King in beautiful, lethal battle-madness against five hulking orcs, as he strove to reach Sauron. Bodies lay before him, but more and more orcs came, until he was hemmed on three sides. A great spear, hurled with massive force by a troll, took him in the shoulder, slamming him forward. Even as he regained his balance, another troll lumbered behind him. Its mace flung him from his feet. (And broke him, Vanimórë knew, with grief.) He landed at Sauron's feet.

_No!_

Vanimórë heard the laughter in his mind as Sauron raised his own weapon. A voice cried out in anguish: "_Gil! _" and fury blasted through him. He hit the orcs who had surrounded the High King like a hammer-blow.

There were a clot of Men and Elves about Sauron. He saw his father reach down, the One Ring glowing poisonously on his hand, saw a flash of red light...

Linked to Sauron's mind, Vanimórë felt the severance of his soul from the Ring more than any other there. It shocked his mind into unconsciousness, felling him, even as the supernatural shock wave passed over the armies.  
He lay not far from Gil-galad, and for once, he was at peace. ~

~~~


	21. The Last Star Is Fallen

Seeing splashes of black blood, snarling maws under crude helms, hearing the clangor of conflict, Tindómion cut through toward Gil-galad, scarcely aware he was fighting.

Strangely, there was no pain when the mace struck his mail-clad leg, it simply went numb, gave beneath him. He fell on his right knee, and reflexively flung himself on his back. His blade ripped up through the orc's gut, and Tindómion rolled aside, wrenching the sword from the carcass, cursing as he tried to rise.

And then, the whole world seemed to explode. A giant hand slammed him against the earth, a shock wave passed over him, and he was momentarily deafened by a noise which boomed through the aether like a thunderclap, felt in the soul, the bone and nerves.

There was such a silence in the aftermath it seemed as if all had been destroyed.

Tindómion lifted his head. Far above, the great ashen cone of Orodruin rose; he could see the ancient doorway which lead to the Sammath Naur, the Fire Chambers, where the One Ring had been forged.  
Sauron was gone, as if blown away by the force. Tindómion saw Elrond, Círdan, Isildur rising unsteadily, holding something in his left hand, whilst his right gripped the hilt of a broken sword...he saw...he saw...

''Gil...''  
Again his leg betrayed him, throwing him to the blooded earth.  
_Gil_...No ! His gauntleted hands dug into the ash, scraped on rock as he dragged himself forward.

Gil-galad's body looked uninjured; that was the bitterest jest.  
Gently, Tindómion drew off the kingly helm. He could hear voices not far away, a Man, Elrond and Círdan. Their words meant nothing.

''Gil...'' His voice was constricted; a blade wedged itself into his heart, taking his breath.

Gil-galad's eyes opened, still fiercely bright against the white pallor of his face, the red and black of blood.  
''Istelion...he is gone?

''Yes...hush. Rest, I will get help...''  
His mind, vibrating with pain, hurled a furious, mental cry for aid, but it was already there, light feet speeding towards them, halting.

''Istelion.'' The star-blue eyes fixed on Tindómion's and clung.

  
_ Gil...do...not !_

The pain spasmed agony through Gil-galad's body. Blood burst in a plume from his lips. Tindómion leaned over him, tear tracks washing a path through the spatters of blood and ash on his face. Gil-galad wanted to reach out a hand to that anguished face and offer comfort.

_So my father died, so did Morgoth break Fingolfin's body..._

The pain began to recede, and he blinked, focusing desperately on the silver eyes above him, hearing the silent cries. Images crowded into his mind, like the beloved dead coming forward with last gifts for him...

 

***

_...long fingers smoothed back his bed-tossed black hair and under the ministrations, feeling secure and comforted, Ereinion relaxed against his father's hard chest.  
_

_''I saw a dark tower, **adar,**'' he whispered. ''And a mountain of fire, it frightened me.''  
_

_The gentle stroking paused for a moment. ''Only a dream, do not heed it.'' Fingon kissed the glossy crown of his hair. ''Come to me, if it troubles thee again.''_

_They were riding without saddles, and as the ground opened before them in a sea of green, Fingon rose to stand on the stallion's strong back, holding his son in his arms. Ereinion gasped and then threw back his head laughing, as their hair mingled in the toss of wind. He felt completely secure, and his heart glowed with love when he felt his father kiss his hair. He buried his face against the strong white throat and closed his eyes for a moment..._

_A young man walked into the Great Hall in Lindon, prickly as a cat, alone and proud, his only ornament a great brooch with Maglor's harp laid across the fireflower insignia of the House of Fëanor. Gil-galad looked into his eyes, and his heart found it's match. _

"_Gil. Gil !_"

''Istelion...''

''Gil..._please..._'' Tindómion's mind was a firesong of anguish.

_No. Please. Oh, Eru, please. _

_Nárya,*_ Gil-galad thought lovingly.  
And died.

_**Do not...Die**..._

Tindómion's choked throat opened in a scream of such grief that even Elrond was wrenched from his vocal contention with Isildur, which had become one sided; he could not force the Man to destroy the Ring without using force.

Tindómion laid his head on Gil-galad's still breast, his clotted hair spilling over the stained armor like another rush of blood. Darkness came down on his heart, and he did not feel himself be carried away, nor see gentle hands lift the body of the high king.


	22. 'I Reject The Valar.'

~ Hearing returned first. It always did, but it was not sound which pulled him from the deeps where his soul rested; it was the sense of power weighing on his mind.  
His eyes focused. He lay on a pallet within a high-roofed pavilion. Some-one had tended his wounds, and he was naked under the soft coverlet. As he gathered himself to his feet, he searched his soul for that presence of red flame and cold ice, hardly daring to breathe. There was no-one there to see the despair in the purple eyes as he felt it, dim and distant as something sunk in the deep oceans.  
But Sauron was still in existence

The Ring....he had seen a Man, in one last extremity of bravery, strike out with a broken sword...

He had seen the High King...die.

Sorrow and rage shocked through him. He cursed, then his head came up as from beyond the tent, he heard a voice ring out. It was a voice of Power. It was mighty. It was cold; the voice of one imposing a sentence upon a criminal.

''For thine unhallowed and unclean coupling, which thou dost dare to call love, Ereinion son of Fingon is judged."

A voice that Vanimórë had heard before as rich and strong now screamed like one receiving a death-wound: ''_NO!_ Thou hast no right !''

There was burst of sudden noise, a clap of thunder which made the ground vibrate, the tent shiver, a sudden outburst of voices, protesting, shocked.

"Gil !" The blasted horror in the cry caused Vanimórë, who thought he had seen and heard enough in the deeps of Angband, to flinch.  
"I beg thee ! It is not his offense, but mine !"

"He goes to Námo. And thence to the Void." The reply was pitiless. "Thou hast doomed him, Fëanorion and when thy houseless spirit does come to us, thy punishment will be as his."

"The _Void?_" Utter disbelief. It rippled through those there like a wave. "Art thou _ mad_?"

"Have a care," the voice blazed. "Or thine offenses will be judged here and now !"

"There is no offense !" It was Glorfindel, his words a blade of solid fury. "The Void is not for the Children of Eru !"

"By our Laws he has sinned and his soul is Námo's to judge."  
There was a cry of brutal grief, the clash of weapons, Elrond's voice calling out: "No, Glorfindel ! Tindómion !"

"Thou wouldst draw weapon upon _me?_ Beware! or follow thy lovers and those others who defied us and slew their own kin and joined their bodies uncleanly ! Follow them into the Everlasting Dark."

_What in the Hells...?_  
Vanimórë stared blindly at the cloth wall before him, then froze as he felt that presence within the tent, felt himself regarded by a mind. It was as if he stood before Morgoth again in Angband's throne-hall, his soul stripped to the core. He turned, saw nothing.

_We have been aware of thee. Come now. Come and find healing in Aman. We will teach thee to live in righteousness._

Aman.

_Bloody Hells..! _

Vanimórë felt his heart pound within him like a drum. Freedom. No more degradation, no more rape. Freedom. He had prayed for it all his life.

Outside, he heard the terrible sound of a strong soul, a warrior's soul, reduced to agony. He thought of Maglor in Barad-dûr, the fire and the pleasure. The _passion._

Wrong?

He laughed. It was a sound of pure mockery.  
"I think _not._ This is the mercy of the Valar, is it? Then I want none of it ! Thou hast cast Gil-galad into the Void for _loving another man?_" His eyes burned in contempt. "Surely thou knowest that _I_ have found pleasure with men as well as women? What wilt thou do to me when I refuse to see it as an _offense_? Cast me into the Void – the place Morgoth promised he would drag my spirit if I died? Damned if I will permit that !"  
Hope crumbled into dust. There was no pardon for him, no release, no freedom. The Valar offered him only another kind of slavery, and only if he begged their forgiveness for his _sins_. He folded his arms, raised his head and smiled like a blade.  
"I do not recognize thee." He turned away. "Thou couldst never understand me, and by the Hells, I do not understand _thee !_ What Morgoth said of thee was true. How very...ironic. Well. _I reject thee._" he enunciated scornfully. "I reject the Valar."

***

"Seven years thou hast been here," Elrond said. ''And in that time thou hast suffered, bound in some deep way to Sauron's mind. We have seen this. Now he is gone. Not without terrible cost.'' The stern face was sorrowful. "Now, wilt thou not speak?"

''What happened to the Ring?'' Vanimórë answered with a question.

There was a pause. Finally Elrond said, his voice devoid of emotion:  
''Isildur, son of Elendil took it, as weregild for the death of his father and brother.''

Vanimórë's brows drew down.  
''Much of Sauron's power passed into the One Ring. If it remains, he will return. Only the fires in the depths of the Mountain can destroy it.''

''We know this. But unless by coercion, we could not force the Man to cast it into the fire.''

A humorless smile curved Vanimórë's mouth; he whispered something under his breath in an alien tongue, but the disgust in his tone needed no translation.  
''Sauron's spirit has suffered much harm. It is weak now, far away. But it still exists upon Middle-earth. Thou wilt regret not forcing the Man, and I need no foresight to tell me so.''

''I believe that. Yet _we_ are not slaves of the Dark.'' Elrond's voice was stony. ''Thou dost feel him then?''

''There is no power to his presence, but yes, it is there.'' Although the words were steady, there was a great weariness in them, a hopeless acceptance that servitude was not ended.

''Come with us,'' Elrond said abruptly. ''Come back to thy people.''

Vanimórë threw back his head and laughed.  
''Thou art gracious, but I tell thee, thou wouldst not want me in thy realms.'' He rose. "I thank thee, but I cannot."

''There is something in thee which defies the Dark, or why wouldst thou have become our prisoner and demanded captivity, wearing chains?" Elrond stood with him. "Thou wert wounded by orc blades and the sword was black with their blood. Thou wert trying to reach the high king!''

''Lord Elrond, I was chained to Sauron from my birth." Vanimórë leaned forward and their eyes locked. "_From my birth._ Canst thou not see? He will arise again and in the end, when he gains enough power, I will be forced to return to him. He reads my mind as a scribe reads vellum. Wouldst thou truly like him to _see_ Imladris, Lord Elrond? No?" The Peredhel's eyes widened. "I thought not. So, I will go, and wait, until the Shadow arises again. For it will. In this, if in nothing else, I have foreknowledge." He straightened. ''It is the first time in my life I have ever fought with...my kindred. And I achieved exactly nothing.''

"Say not that nothing was achieved," Elrond murmured, then went on, more coldly. "So whither goest thou, to gather up the scattered orcs and reign over them until Sauron calls thee again?''

Vanimórë shrugged. "I go south, to the lands of heat and gold and spices, where I will live like a prince until the time comes." He looked about at the camp, and there was deep sorrow in his eyes. "Too many Elves died here. I would that Gil-galad had lived."

Elrond bowed his head to hide the tears in his own eyes.

''_Why didst thou let him claim the Ring?_'' Tindómion strode forward, still halt of one leg, his face white and bruised with his anguish. Elrond's head came up.

''I am not thy father, Istelion, nor thy grandsire, wouldst have had me take it and him and cast them both into the fire?'' Elrond demanded.

''Hells, _yes!_ I would have done so !'' Tindómion was a wasteland of heartbreak and fury. ''This was no victory, Elrond ! This is the end !''

"Had I been aware, I would have dealt with Isildur and the Ring both," Vanimórë said.

“That easily?” Elrond asked, bile and frustration turning his voice bitter.

“That easily. It can give me nothing I desire, thus it has no power over me. I know both Ring and Maker. But Men and Elves shall pay in sorrow for thine honor, Lord Elrond, in dealing with an enemy who has none. Of course Isildur could not destroy the Ring. It did not want him to. And thou didst know it. Perhaps thou shouldst question thine own lack of motivation?” He bowed mockingly. “Farewell, until we meet again, my lords.”

"He is right," Tindómion hissed as Vanimórë strode away. "Curse the race of Men for this ! And thou, Elrond. Gil-galad is dead and damned. Uncounted bodies lie rotting on Dagorlad, and for _what?_ So that thou couldst keep thy hands clean of blood?" He flung away limping, and passed through the ranks of those gathered. There was silence.

~~~

Vanimórë tightened the cinch and patted the stallion's sleek neck. He spoke without looking around.  
"I thank thee for thine...hospitality, Golden One."

"I heard what thou didst say to Elrond," Glorfindel answered. "Yet thou couldst have come with us, lived among thy people for a time." He could not see the wry smile which curved the others mouth, but when Vanimórë turned, it lingered.

"And when Sauron exerted his power over thee," Glorfindel continued. "He would call thee back and seen in thy mind where Imladris lies and perhaps other things which he must not discover."

"So, I acted out of nobility? To appreciate the humor in that, thou wouldst have to know me, Golden One."

"I saw nobility on the slopes of Orodruin. I saw what thy battles against Sauron's will cost thee." Glorfindel reached out his hand and they gripped wrists. "I think we will meet again one day. And I will know whom thou truly art. "

"Perhaps we will," Vanimórë released his hand, stepped forward and whispered against the firm lips: "Until then I will _cherish_ the memories of these years."

Their mouths touched for the briefest moment and then Vanimórë turned and mounted. His hand touched his breast and he inclined his head, and rode away.~

~~~


	23. Sud Sicanna ~ Desert City

 

  
[](http://www.lotrfanfiction.com/viewstory.php?sid=12575&index=1)   
  
Vanimórë rode from Mordor without looking back. Crossing Harondor into the deserts of the Harad, he followed the ancient trade route across the Burning Walk, untroubled by the pitiless slam of the sun, to a city he had first visited long ago as emissary of Sauron: Sud Sicanna.

The roads across the Harad were as old as Man, worn across desert, savanna, through jungles, to carry the lifeblood of this huge land, which was trade.  
Here the trade-route traversed the most waterless, the hottest desert on Middle-earth, the Mirror of Fire, and despite this it was heavily traveled. Caravansaries catered for resolute merchants. Wherever a well could be sunk they sprouted, providing smithies, rooms, penning for animals, food and news.

All news now was of the triumph of the Men of the West, and the terrible White Fiends of the north (for so they called the Elves, or _Lichtloth_, in their northern tribal tongue) against Lord Sauron the Great, and merchants were not the only ones using this road; soldiers and mercenaries were heading south, seeking places far from the wrath and ruin of the north.

The city opened out of the sands like a stone rose. It appeared to the lone rider as a shimmer of domes on the horizon, something seen in a waking dream. As the traveler approached it solidified, real and immense. About it's walls spread acres of tillage, and little villages clustered about oases where date-palms clattered in the hot winds.  
Sud Sicanna existed because of this bounty of underground water in the most pitiless of deserts of the Harad. And it was a hub; trade roads converged on it from north to south, west to east, for if water had founded the first settlement here, trade was it's true lifeblood, and had made it wealthy.

Vanimórë pulled the stallion and sumpter pony aside, looking through the gap between turban and veil. A train of camels stepped haughtily past, harness ringing, their drivers veiled against the sun, swaying easily to the rocking gait. After a moment, he touched his booted heels to his mount's side and rode on toward the gates.

Domes tiled with copper, bronze and silver burned light back at the cloudless skies. In fountained gardens, veiled women murmured as softly as the fall of the water. Below the palaces, great markets thronged and seethed, and in the dusty, narrow streets of the poor, people worked at their humble trades. To Sud Sicanna, the Great War in the north meant little. The sultan had sent troops, but none had ever returned, and rumor ran that the Great Lord was overthrown. Since no-one here had ever set eyes on their Overlord, or his land of fire and darkness, this meant even less. Sud Sicanna would prosper as it ever had. Strong walls rolled about the city, but the gates were ever open for Sud Sicanna was an old and painted harlot, welcoming any-one who came with coin or goods. Only the priests in their temples were troubled, their chants rising with the smoke of the burned offerings.

~~~

Vanimórë made his way to a spacious inn and paid for a room which looked out through carved wood screens onto a courtyard where a fountain played. A gold-skinned slave-girl with anklets and bracelets of copper brought food, flat-baked bread sprinkled with poppy-seeds, soft, fragrant cheeses, mutton, a stone jug of tart wine. He tossed her a heavy silver coin as she left and her Kohl-lined eyes sparkled. With an inviting sway of her hips, she left the room.

_ I always liked the Harad._

He had realized during those seven years of willing captivity that he needed some-one, _wanted _ some-one to be his, some-one to whom he would be everything, who would adore him despite what he was. And he wanted an Elf, with their ability to love for eternity. (For she had died, his sister, whom he loved, and a Mortal would die all too soon.) He could, in effect, re-write his own story with some-one innocent, as he had once been innocent.

_Fool. I am still a fool. No Elf would accept me if they knew who I was._

He sat down, neatly crossed his legs and relaxed until the swift onset on night, whereupon he rose and left the inn, heading for the palace of Uwath, the dissolute ruler of the city.

~~~

''I come from Mordor,'' he told the guards, and their spears lifted. A turbaned man in white robes approached, bowed and lead him through the palace to a rich, empty chamber.  
''Where is thy master?'' Vanimórë asked brusquely. ''This is not polite visit and I will not wait. I bring news.''

''He is ... occupied, lord,'' the servant bowed again. ''He cannot be disturbed. We will bring you refreshment –''

A hand closed lightly about his throat but the man had the feeling that only a little pressure would crush his windpipe. His eyes bulged.  
''I thank thee, but I think I will see him now. Do not trouble to show me, I know the way.'' He pushed the servant into an inelegant sprawl of the floor and strode to another door.  
It looked like the dream of a desperate man, or at least one that liked young men, and one man was indeed enjoying the dream, although he looked to be the only one. Grossly fat, thick gold collars in the folds of flesh around his neck, rings on plump fingers, Uwath had become ruler of this city by the judicious use of poison.

Vanimórë set a booted foot on the heaving rump and said:  
''Still as much finesse as a bull, Uwath?''

There were shrill cries from the odalisques as they scattered. Uwath rolled aside, cursing, until he saw who this was, then stiffened warily, small eyes unexpectedly shrewd in their pouches of flesh.

''Lord...'' He put out his hand for a robe. "We heard rumors you were dead."

"It grieves me to disappoint thee," Vanimórë said urbanely, ''Now do me a favor old man, and call thy ministers in. ''

''My ministers, lord? Why?''

''Send. For. Them.'' The command drained the blood from the man's face. There was a quality in it which suggested that refusal was unthinkable.  
''I will wait.''  
Vanimórë leaned back against the wall as if prepared to stand there indefinitely. Uwath bellowed orders as he thrust his head through the silk robe, and his mind spun furiously as he downed a goblet of wine. It was rumored that the Dark One had been vanquished, but as yet it was only hearsay in the South. No-one who had passed through Sud Sicanna had seen it with their own eyes. Perhaps it was better not to cross blades with one who was close to Lord Sauron.

One by one, roused from other beds or revels, the counselors and ministers of the city entered, bewildered sleek and corrupt. Vanimórë watched them impassively.

''Well, lord. we are assembled," Uwath rumbled in his bass voice. "How may we serve you? "

''I want Sud Sicanna," Vanimórë said coolly. There was a dead silence before Uwath roared with laughter. ''I will rule it until the Lord Sauron returns.''

''You jest, lord ! Ever we have been allies, servants of Lord Sauron... but we have word he is no more, eh?'' He pressed on, ''The Great One we would accommodate...but not his Slave. You bring no army with you and no orders from the Lord.''

Vanimórë watched him calmly, and then his swords came out of their sheaths with a hiss and positioned themselves each side of the fat neck.

''Perhaps I did not make myself clear." His eyes burned into the suddenly wide black ones. "I will have Sud Sicanna. And thou wilt tell thy people and abdicate thy rule or I will have thee spread out and raped by my war stallion.'' Blood trickled down Uwath's neck. ''Make the choice.''

Behind Vanimórë some-one moved, and he whirled. A head bounced on the tiles, but even as the scimitar sheered through the neck, it was returning to caress Uwath's throat.  
''This could easily irritate me very quickly,'' he murmured.

Uwath's tongue came out and moistened his lips. There were other ways to play this. No-one, even the Lord Sauron, if rumor ran true, was invincible.

"Be still fools ! It seems I have no choice."

"None," Vanimórë smiled. "I am sure I can find work for thee in my Council, Uwath."

"You will find the city complex, lord, who better to advise you than me?" The bile of hatred was sour in the man's throat as his mind turned over thoughts, tossing them aside. "Perhaps...a gift...?" he suggested.

The black brows rose. "How very civilized. Besides the city what else canst thou offer me? And I prefer to choose my own lovers."

And then he saw it. The images bubbled up into Uwath's mind like scum from a pot of boiling offal.

_Bloody Gods..._

Lightning flashed in his eyes and he stepped back, rage pouring from him like the shimmer of heat from the baking sands. Uwath's mouth sagged open.

''Call the Captain of the Guard,'' he commanded. ''_ Do it now ! _''  
The soldier who hastened in was a sinewy, tough individual. He came expecting to defend die for his ruler, and halted warily as he saw the black haired man, sensing the danger as any good soldier would. A pair of purple eyes siezed his own, and his mouth went dry.

''Children go missing in this city, do they not? Street brats, orphans and sometimes children who are cherished and loved. Like thy son, Captain.''  
Vanimórë watched the dark stare become intent and afraid, heard the indrawn breath. His eyes passed over the silent councilors who had frozen where they stood.  
''All of thee know it.'' His voice dropped into a terrible softness. The palm-oil lamps showed the dew of thick sweat on the motionless faces. A great drop rolled into the fleshy folds of Uwath's neck.

''Lord,'' the Captain cried out as if jabbed by the point of a dagger. ''My wife weeps for our son, and none can find him ! My firstborn, and he was not taken to the Temple...''

''No. He he was no sacrifice for Sauron," Vanimórë stated, his unblinking eyes returning to the ruler. "I can find him. Call thy men.''

There was a shuffling back of slippered feet as the ministers sought to put as much distance as possible between themselves the terrible warrior of Sauron. From outside came the snap of orders, and the Captain returned with grim eyed soldiers at his back.

''Thou knowest of what I speak, thou piece of _filth !_'' Vanimore spat at Uwath. He turned, walked unerringly to the wall, tore down a length of rich hanging and revealed a barred door.

''Bring him, bring all of them. If they try to escape, break their knees or ankles ! If thou wouldst find thy son alive, captain, obey me. Or die for the one who violated him !''

Jaisal found it impossible to deny the authority in that voice, and a horrified understanding broke through him. Uwath bellowed, flung himself toward the hallway, and found his way barred. His head was wrenched back, and a voice spoke as a gag was thrust into his mouth and bound there.  
"I would like thy loyal soldiers to see what they have served, Uwath." Vanimórë unbarred the door and opened it. Steps lead downward into a corridor and at the far end was another door. It was locked. Vanimórë aimed a kick at it once, twice and the wood splintered.

The room was furnished in reds and golds and it held fifteen children, ranging in age from mere toddlers to youths. They were painted,perfumed, chained to long divans. Tears had caused khol and gold-dust to run and smudge, and through it the young eyes held bruised expressions of pain, shame, and horror. An insane fury whitened Vanimórë's mind like a burning sun.

"Khidri !" Jaisal leaped forward to gather a young boy in his arms. The faces of the soldiers were stunned; even in this decadent city, there were things which sickened.

Vanimore turned slowly to face the bound and gagged Uwath.  
"Thou wilt scream just as these children did, I swear it." His voice was quiet, and held dead certainty as solid as an iron wall.

Scimitars balanced on his shoulders, he turned, catching the soldiers eyes; Jaisal was trying to break the chains which bound his son and Vanimórë sheathed the swords, casually as if he had no reason to fear any-one. Taking the thin chains in his hands he snapped the links.

"Some things put one beyond any law," he said as he worked to free the other children. "And sometimes it falls to us to mete out a fitting judgment. Now come. I want _witnesses !_" The last word hissed through his teeth as he passed back through the doors. He had done many things in his life, and would do many more, but some acts were beyond him. He looked back down the black road of his life to the youth screaming for help that would never come...

Jaisal and his men would have ripped Uwath apart with their bare hands had he permitted it. The news spread like fire, crowds swarmed toward the palace, carrying torches, screaming the names of children who had died lonely agonizing deaths in the underground chamber.

When Vanimórë stepped out to speak to the gathering the light illuminated him. He spoke of Sauron as one who would return, but for now, he said, _he_ would rule Sud Sicanna. He promised better pay for the standing army with free housing, provision for the widows, and those injured in battle or training. The wealth that had been creamed off by Uwath and his ministers would be put to good use.  
And after the promises, a demonstration of what would happen to those who displeased him...

"Those children were sons and daughters of this city, kidnapped and abused." His eyes flashed into red-gold like fire, perhaps reflecting the torchlight, or the wrath that sang within him.  
"They will live with those memories all their lives, as a warrior lives with his scars.''  
He knew that Mortals could gradually forget, the soul-wounds skinning over. Some agency of their minds could block memories out.  
Sometimes.  
''But many will never come back. Who knows where their bodies lie buried?"  
Women wept and men cursed. The lust for vengeance was thick in the air.

The steel-shod hooves of the great warhorse crashed on the cobbles.  
"A shame to use thee thus," Vanimórë murmured, and then whispered words of Black Speech into the stallion's mind.

The death of Uwath was slow and agonizing, and it sickened the stomachs of even the most jaded. The man's screams clawed up to a pitch which took them beyond humanity and destroyed his throat. Many of the onlookers fled to vomit or ran in hysterical panic.  
And Vanimórë watched with a face stern as marble, seeing nothing but the red-lit chambers of Angband.  



	24. Tindómion

  
**Lindon - After the Last Alliance.**

~ Fanari's hand tightened on the baluster as she heard the sound of horses hooves, and a little later the door opened. She turned.

When he had returned from Mordor, he had not gone back to the palace, but had come to her house. She sent for his great harp, and lyre, his chests, for he was in no state of mind to organize it himself. Fanari had seen grief before, she had felt it more than once, and her son's was devastating. She had grieved herself, silently and alone. It seemed impossible. Lindon had prospered under Gil-galad, grown mighty, reminding her of Gondolin in its glory. A shining King he was, (had been, she reminded herself painfully) in face and form the image of his father.

And, like his father, like all the doomed and magnificent Noldor Kings, he had died violently.

Tindómion looked burned from within by anguish, his hair roughly caught back from his face, long cloak showing splashes of mud. Wayworn and fretted, his eyes were those of a starving wolf. He had been gone for days.

''Mother?'' He seemed surprised, his eyes narrowed as it took him a moment to recognize her.

''Istelion,'' she said, her throat hurting for him. ''Thou must stop this.''

Thick lashes fell over the opacity of his silver eyes as he crossed to pour wine.  
''Stop what?'' His voice came muted.

''This, this riding out, not eating, never resting. Thou must...''

''I cannot.'' He whirled on her. ''I. Can. _Not!_ I failed my King, he died in my arms, I promised to serve him ! And I...'' He thrust one hand roughly into his hair.

''That was not thy fault,'' Fanari whispered.

''I _failed,_ and now the last star is gone out...our King is dead, there are no more. And he was beautiful and valiant and he is gone! He is in the Void. I..."

Fanari came toward him.  
''But he loved thee."

Tindómion plunged to his knees, leaned his head against her waist and wept. She smoothing his hair and her own tears fell upon it, vanishing into the burnished strands.

Gil-galad's body had been taken to Imladris. Glorfindel had sent a message to Fanari telling her to bring her son to the valley. If they had not come by the autumn he would ride to Lindon himself, he wrote. Tindómion should have been one of the escort to see his King's _rhaw_ laid in the peace of Imladris, but he had ridden in anguish back to Lindon as if he hoped to find Gil-galad there, in the empty palace...

There had been a star when Tindómion was born, she thought. But his star, the star he lived and breathed for, was fallen...

***

**The Havens of Sirion **

The hoof beats faded. She could hear the protesting cries of the twins, Elrond and Elros as they were borne away, fading into the mewling of the gulls.

_Do not hurt them...! _

She had sank down, drawing her knees up, her arms clasped around herself, the bruised scent of crushed grass under her, mingling with the copper smell of blood from the dead and dying.  
Slowly the sigh of the sea came back to her, the distant call of voices.  
She did not open her eyes.

_Eru help me..._

Elwing was gone, her husband, Eärendil, at sea, none knew where, their sons taken by Maedhros and Maglor...

''I will give _nothing_ to those red-handed Kinslayers! Accursed get of mad Fëanor !'' Elwing had declared and indeed, she had not, purposing to die rather than relinquish the jewel. Graceful as a gull, her hair blown by the updraft from the cliff, she had let herself fall back into the empty air, the Silmaril held to her heart.

A cool breeze touched Fanari, the noise of voices raised in fury, in lamentation, came closer. If she opened her eyes she would see the bodies of the slain.  
She had seen the rage, the despair and madness break over the Fëanorions, and thought she was about to die, that one of their already blooded swords would end her. What she had seen in Maglor's eyes was not desire, neither was it lust. It was insanity.  
And she understood. For one timeless moment lasting less that an eye-blink, she understood what had driven him to this act.

A voice she recognized was calling something, she heard hoof beats, the jingle of harness, but not the footsteps, which were light on the turf of the sea-cliff. A hand touched her.  
''Ah, no!'' The two words held such sorrow.

_Círdan thinks me dead..._ She forced her eyes open and the Shipwright exclaimed:  
''Fanari..!''

''Elrond and Elros,'' she swallowed, tasting blood from her bitten lips. ''They were alive when they were taken...''

''Peace, Fanari. I know, they were seen.'' His tone was grim, his hands very gentle as they moved over her, feeling no wound, looking into her eyes.

''No...'' He rose, calling for some-one to make a litter.

''The blame was not his...he was mad.''

Those had not been the same eyes, so bright, so kind that she had seen as a child. Mereth Aderthad; the voice of Maglor melting like honey into his harp music. It had enchanted the child she was, brought tears burning into her eyes...

Darkness drew her down again. Hands gently lifted her to a hastily contrived litter. Beyond the burning Havens, ships lay offshore, and tents were going up for the injured.

She smelled the smoke and blood, but saw nothing, until she became aware of the touch of water, soft cloth, a quiet voice speaking to another.  
''She is dying...''

A still pool waited for her, promising rest. She let herself drift down, and it held her comfortingly. There were no visions, no voices, no touch, no more sorrow, no pain...  
And then, at the deepest point, almost beyond returning, like a sudden star she felt...life...a pulse echoing through the nothingness; a soul. It was within her and of her, and of another.

_A child...a child...?_

Engendered in violence, a spark of new life which would die with her, Maglor's get. Blood of Fëanor...

Like a swimmer who has dived too far, she began the struggle back to the surface, and the returning of all her pain. Light danced on her eyes and she saw the interior of a tent, the woman sitting beside her.  
She said, finding her voice husky, thin as a lath.  
''I am with child...'' And for the first time, tears spilled down her cheeks.

**

The wind, speaking its rough, restless language, tumbled like an army over the Isle of Balar. There was a light in the white room and beyond it, one star burned.

_Tindóme_. A lantern. A star. It had been there in the dusk, when the first birth pangs began, and was here again now as the babe came into the world and was washed and laid in her arms.

He had no sire to name him and for a moment Fanari could not think of anything but that the starlight was in his eyes. She felt his soul, its nascent fire.

''Tindómion.''

_Maglor, this is thy son, thy blood, thy bone, thy spirit._

A fierce, protective love swept over her. He had to be born, he had to live, Blood of Fëanor – with all the sorrow, the glory of that House.  
She blessed his small brow with a kiss. A soft down of hair aureoled his head. Her hair was black as Maglor's, but Maedhros' hair was was copper. This child's would be darker, shining bronze, blending the raven and the red.

_Tindóme_...the time of the fading of the stars, the fading of the People of the Stars, yet that one brilliant light burned through the airs until it was swallowed by the opening of the day. This last star of a doomed House would blaze as the Ages drew on. One tear fell on his soft hair, for his mother felt the sorrow which was bound up with his life.

''Yet thou shalt blaze bright, Tindómion Maglorion Fëanorion,'' she said softly.

**

Fanari was deliberately culpable of fostering the belief that Tindómion's father had died during the sack of the Havens. She did not lie, never said it directly, and the truth was known to those like Cirdan, and Gil-galad, and the women who tended her.

The years when he grew to adulthood were shattering years. The War of Wrath rent the north as the hosts of the Valar, with the Eldar of Aman and those who had labored long as Exiles, fought the power of Morgoth.

The Elves of Beleriand moved eastward into Lindon or beyond. Fires turned the night skies blood-red and the earth trembled with the violence of the conflict.

Fanari was in Lindon, where the havens of Mithlond were established; her home through the Second Age. Tindómion was eager, almost desperate to take up arms, for the War lasted fifty years; the pits of Angband seemed inexhaustible as Morgoth unleashed his legions of orcs, trolls, Balrogs, werewolves and dragons.

But those were the last years of that War. And when it was ended, and Beleriand and all its realms covered by Belegaer, all the Elves of that lost land were summoned by Eonwë, Herald of the Valar to depart.

It was then Fanari heard her first certain news of Maedhros and Maglor; how they had slain those who guarded the Silmarilli and fled from the encampment. After, it was said that Maedhros had flung himself into a fiery chasm in the earth, that Maglor had cast the jewel he bore into the wild sea. The Silmarils could not be claimed by the brothers after their many grevious acts.

The room was full of sunlight. It cast Fanari's face into shadow, as she turned from the balcony and Tindómion could not see her expression until he closed the gap between them and embraced her. She returned it fervently and then stepped back and looked up at him.

''Knowest thou why we returned so soon?'' he asked, almost tripping over the words. ''I cannot describe what we saw...and I saw but little, but I felt it...light and power...but then Círdan said we must hasten to return.''  
His mother's eyes were unblinking and he went on: ''Thou hast not heard then? The Silmarilli which were recovered from the Iron Crown were taken by Eönwë, the herald of the Valar and guarded by the Vanyar. I saw naught, but I heard what happened. Maedhros and Maglor entered the camp and slew the guards, and Eönwë would not have them slain. They escaped into the night. I know not why, but Círdan deemed that we must return with that news.''

Fanari's hands locked over her mouth as if she held back a sob or a curse. Tindómion saw her eyes well with tears. After a long moment, she lowered her hands.

''Does any-one know what happened to them?'' her question was taut.

''I have heard nothing.'' His black brows drew down. ''It is an evil act, yet they were not punished for it, even as they were unpunished for the Sack of Doriath and when they came down upon the Haven's and my father killed.''

An odd sound burst from his mother's mouth. She turned, stepped out onto the balcony and braced herself against the balustrade. Tindómion saw her shoulders heave once, and then she said as if her throat were clogged with tears: ''Think not that they do not suffer for their deeds. Then they did not go to Aman?''

''What suffering could atone for their acts, mother?'' he demanded and she turned.

''Thou doth hate them, and yet I say to thee that they pay in anguish each day. They have lost a father, brothers...''

''And they have killed fathers and brothers and daughters, wives and innocent children,'' he flared. ''Mother, I do not understand thee ! Thou didst lose my father by their hand yet thou wouldst defend them? And what matters it? They are gone and even if they have the Silmarils some-one will kill them for those jewels. They have no friends, they are hated and the Silmarilli have never caused aught but sorrow and death.''

She rubbed her hands together as if the pressure of the stone had hurt them; her pupils had dilated so that her eyes looked black and blind. She reached to small leather bag at her girdle, and pulled back the strings. Her fingers dipped in and emerged holding something that caught the light in brilliant flashes.

''This was thy father's. It is past time for thee to have it.''

He received the brooch into his hand. And stared. It covered his palm, perfectly round, the insignia laid into it with expert, delicate skill. Gold had been incised and melted ruby run into the patterns which were like fire-flowers reaching out to the edges. Over it, in silver, was a harp.

He knew the House this represented, and his head filled with heat, light. He could not see, could hear nothing but the heavy beat of his heart.

_No..._ His lips shaped the word, made no sound.

''Thy father is Maglor, son of Fëanor.''

''No...'' He denied it.

''When they attacked the Haven's...thou wert engendered then.''

''How could..?'' He stared at her and saw her head shake.

''He did not love me. He gave me that brooch at Mereth Aderthad, when I was a child. I saw him in Vinyamar before we removed to Gondolin. I loved him and wanted him but he was not for me. He did not even recognize me. But I _ wanted _ a child by him. I had loved him...he suffered, I saw his face...and so I lived to bear thee.''

Tindómion's face was white as salt. ''He raped thee.''

''I would have died had it been rape.'' She said what every-one said, although she thought the belief too unambiguous. Things were not so clear-cut.

''Either it was rape or not, what, in the midst of an array he paused to make love to thee?''

Color splashed into her face. ''I told thee he did not love me. I was in the way. All he saw was death...despair. He took me by force; yet I bore thee. I was going to die, I felt it and I felt _thee!_ Last Star of the House of Fëanor. And I lived to bear thee. For him. To give him _something!_''

Tindómion staggered as if struck by a mace and sank to his knees, still gripping the brooch. He lowered his head and his shoulders set against the upwelling rage.

Neither of them heard the Shipwright enter but when he spoke both became still as if they melted into the stone walls of the chamber.

''There is news of them.'' Complications of pity wove in and out of his words. ''Gil-galad received a message from – he believes – a Maia. The Silmarilli burned them; their deeds reproached them in pain and they could not hold that which they won in blood. Maedhros threw himself into a great rent in the earth and died in fire.''

A gull wheeled in the sky. It's call was a lament.

''It is said that Maglor cast his Silmaril into the ocean.''

Fanari's voice shook free. ''He...h-he drowned...?''

Her son's head came up sharply.

''It is rumored that the sound of his singing has been heard on the shores northward. The Peredhil, Elrond and Elros are returning to Lindon with Gil galad. They grieve for the Sons of Fëanor. They did not harm the twins, indeed it seems they came to love them.''

A pale light of gladness leaped into Fanari's face.

''I will find him.'' The words carried implications of so many things that both his mother and Círdan stared at Tindómion. ''I _ will_ find my father; this I vow! This is my _ Oath! _'' And his white teeth bit off the last word.

A Fëanarion should speak no Oath Fanari thought, but once spoken, it might not be recalled, and she did indeed want Tindómion to find his father, last of the seven brothers, lost and alone...

***

Tindómion changed from that time, he became more grim, fey and goaded. He had been angered when she told him that she had asked for audience with Gil-galad, that he might have a place among the High King's warriors. A flush burned across his high cheekbones.  
''I need no intercedant! I will serve whom I please!''

''Whom else wouldst thou serve?'' she asked. ''Thou art of his blood through Finwë, and he is worthy of his father, Fingon. Thy sword will be needed, and thou doth need a lord.''

''Because I am baseborn?'' he demanded harshly. ''Because I carry accursed blood? I must serve? Is not that tainted blood noble? His house and thine?''

''Tindómion, I lived to bear thee,'' Fanari had suddenly flashed. ''But the Oath of Fëanor and the Doom and the sorrow it wrought is engraven on the hearts of the Noldor! And that cannot be forgotten ! I ask thee to give thy loyalty and service to one worthy and pledge thine allegiance to him. But I cannot force thee. Thou art thy father's son indeed !''

His face grew dark, a retort on the edge of his lips, until he forced himself to recognize the pain in her words. He took a step towards her and drew her close.  
''Forgive me.'' He was appalled at himself. ''I...will go to the High King, I promise thee.''

''Some people are worthy of allegiance,'' she replied, as she disengaged herself and gently laid a hand on his arm. ''I was not wrong to bear thee, but I know thou wilt never be free of the burden of thy blood.''  
Tindómion needed an anchor, and she believed he would find that in Gil-galad.

And so he had gone, and returned with the anger fading from his face, replaced by another thing which would endure all down the years of the Second Age.

***

And now...?

''Glorfindel is coming from Imladris,'' she murmured lifting her son's face in her hands. ''Let us return with him.''

His eyes shimmered. ''And my father?'' The tuneful voice was ragged.

''Thou wilt find him, Istelion, one day.''

''I must,'' he stated. ''Have I not sworn an Oath?'' ~

~~~


	25. Prince Of The Greenwood

Vanimórë could have been a God to the people he ruled. Many believed that were he not a God, he was the servant of Lord Sauron, and his Eye upon them. Vanimórë had no desire to be worshiped, but he did desire one who did not look at him through eyes of fear or hatred. The lovers he chose in Sud Sicanna always came willingly to him with, but with awe, save for one. It left him with a the taste of ashes in his mouth.

Maglor, tragic and beautiful, Glorfindel, magnificent and golden; those two had shown him that there could be passion. He had succeeded in preserving his passions through his enslavement, that he could triumph over it. He wished he had been able to keep Maglor, or gone to Imladris and found Glorfindel, but both had been equally impossible. He could not dwell on what he had wanted. If he permitted himself the luxury of remembering he would harden and flush with heat, yet Maglor loathed him and Glorfindel dwelt in a place that Sauron had long desired to find. He had made the right choices; the only choices.

In those years he made several long journey's back into the north. This was his most prolonged time of freedom, but he was aware, all through it that slowly Sauron rebuilt his form and power. The dark mind squatted in his own like an old toad in the bottom of a well, a constant, waiting presence. He could not revel too greatly in liberty; the fetters he had bound for himself were made strong through expediency. He had to control his thoughts or go mad.

In the north, he found that Orcs still abode, a festering menace lurking in the Towers of Mist and around Nurnen in Mordor. For a long time, the great mountain called Gundabad had been the main stronghold of the Orcs of the Hithaeglir, and he wondered if they caused trouble for the Elves who dwelt in the Great Wood. It would afford Vanimórë satisfaction to remind them that some-one very close to their absent master was still alive and aware of them.

Back in the First Age the orcs had found that the poison of the great spiders proved effective against both Mortals and Elves. It rarely killed, but it could render one helpless, and the captive could provide rare sport when they emerged from the venom-stupor.  
In the Third Age, with the great spiders found almost wholly in the great forest known as Greenwood the Great, and it was not uncommon for the Orcs to venture into the depths to obtain the poison.  
They rarely made the mistake in crossing into the regions patrolled by the wood-Elves, for if they did, they never returned. Elf-arrows were more deadly than arachnid venom, and the archers never missed, but the Orcs could scent the Elves and although the sweet, potent perfume inflamed them, most were not stupid enough to track it.

On the edge of the forest, Vanimórë straightened from a hunter's crouch. His eyes narrowed as he sought to pierce the ever-deepening shadows of the trees which faded from green-gold into darkest emerald. From their upper branches came the constant susurration of leaves as the west wind broke over them. The scent of moss, leaf mold and fern was exhaled like the ancient breathing of the Wood itself, and he breathed deeply.

He had been following the orcs for many days and they had entered the forest here. He could smell them and see the grass here crushed brown as if curling away from the imprint of their feet.  
_Hells, they never could learn stealth!_ Not that Vanimórë cared whether ten thousand of them walked under the trees never to return. He referred to them as _acceptable battle losses._ Sauron knew he detested them. And why.

  
His expression, as he reflexively tested the buckles of his harness, was calm and thoughtful, but for a moment, as he took a deep breath, something rose in his eyes which might only be described as... yearning. His blood was not of the Elf kindred who dwelt in these woods, nevertheless, he could sense them, far away.

Perhaps it was that which decided him, although he had never entered the Greenwood this far north, and the stealth and silence of the Silvan inhabitants of Lasgalen was legendary.  
So, what to do? Go to Gundabad and put the Fear of Sauron on the orcs there? or find this group, make their lives considerably shorter and perhaps also help the wood-Elves?  
The choice was not difficult.

The green gloom intensified as he walked, tree branches weaving overhead, so that scarce any light filtered through the canopy of oak and ash above. Vanimórë quickened his pace to a soundless run. A blind Mortal with his head stuck in a bucket of pig manure could have followed this trail, he thought with disgust.

Although sound rebounded oddly from so many close growing trees, the trail took him directly to a clearing where a band of mountain orcs were facing a colony of great spiders. Although sometimes allied, it appeared that the spiders were not pleased that the orcs were about to take from them a find of fresh meat. Vanimórë took one look and his swords came out as he strode into their midst.  
''In the name of Lord Sauron the Great. _Silence!_'' His voice cut through the harsh clatter like a knife. ''What is happening here?" He spoke in Black Speech, and his tone was forged out of command.  
He was known to the Orcs. There was only one who looked as he did, only one referred to as ''_The_ Slave.''  
At a sound behind him, he spun on one foot. Spider ichor splashed.  
''Back.''The arachnid's legs curled up as it died and Vanimórë faced the orcs again, flicking blood from the blade.

''Found us an Elf, Lord.'' The vile approximation of a grin accompanied the words spoken by the leader of the company, a large, bow-legged creature, with heavy shoulders. ''Shame to let him go to waste on them spiders, eh?''  
The flat of a blade was pressed against the orc's chest, a building pressure indicating he should move back.

The clawed hand was clenched around a great sheaf of pale gold hair. The Elf was very young and very beautiful. There was a wound in his stomach, not from any orc blade, this was a spider's sting. Although Vanimórë had no idea of the boundaries of the Elf Kingdom here, it was clear that this youngster was beyond them. The Silvan Elves were merciless in their attempts to destroy the fast-breeding colonies of the creatures, but this one was too young to be a warrior.  
_Young and rash,_ he thought. Probably this was how many Silvan's were taken when alone, surrounded, quickly stung and dragged away to be cocooned.  
Yet would be an easier death than the orcs would give him.

''I was sent by The Mouth to give thee orders to take back to Gundabad,'' Vanimórë lied. ''I did not expect to have to chase thy stinking hides half way to the Elf-kingdom to deliver those orders.''  
The orcs growled, showing their teeth. He stared at them unblinking.  
'' Our master will be most displeased at this delay. "

"We have heard nothing from the Great One, nothing has come from Mordor for generations," the Orc-captain snarled. "It was said he was gone forever."  
The others muttered agreement. They ruled themselves in Gundabad and lived as they chose.

"The Great One cannot die, fool. He has been far in the East, and _ I_ have been chosen to bring thee the first words from him. He wishes me to inspect how thou hast lived and report to the Mouth. If he is pleased...there could be some reward for thee. There are..._many_ ripe slaves in the east."  
He read their thoughts clearly. They were wondering if they could kill him, wondering if he lied, for those who lie ever mistrust others. They did not know him, only of him. Like Sauron, he was something from legend.

He whirled and two headless bodies swayed for a moment before sagging and falling to the ground. Black blood gushed from their necks and the spiders shrieked at its scent.  
Do not even think it!" he hissed, the point of one blade coming to rest at the captain's throat. "I see thy thoughts! _ He sees through my eyes! I am his! _ He will rip the skin from thee and keep thee alive forever in torment if I am harmed. But thou canst not harm me!"

The creature's red eyes bulged. He flung out his hands. "Put up, lads!"  
Muttering, slavering, the others waited, coiled to strike.

"Good. Now, conduct me to Gundabad and I will forget this incident occurred. The Great One would know if thou art ready for war when the time comes. I expect to give a favorable answer."

"We are always ready to serve the Master," the leader flicked his tongue over jagged teeth.

"Good, for there will be much booty for those whom are loyal." Vanimórë gestured. ''Now kill the damned spiders and let us be gone."

"Yes, lord... but the Elf?" There was avid hunger in the orc's eyes.

"Oh yes, the Elf. Very young - he may die and rob thee of thy play. I will see he lives. Well?'' He pointed with a scimitar. " Kill the spiders."

As the orcs turned away, he knelt, offed his pack and withdrew a brown vial, uncorking it to release a pungent aroma, and drew forth a silk cloth. He poured half the contents of the flask over it, then tore the Elf's tunic and swabbed the wound.

He had learned the preparation of such things over the course of his life, for he was not wholly immune to poison. As he worked, his eyes traced over the unconscious face; fair, even for an Elf, high cheekbones, a strong jaw which showed character and determination, a sweet mouth. Not far away lay a knife, almost long enough to be a short sword, it's white handle delicately engraved, another lay in his lax clasp. His clothes were of fine material, although blooded and torn now, and a splash of crimson almost hid the embroidered insignia on the breast. Vanimórë recognized it. He had seen it before, on Dagorlad.

''Oropher's House..." He felt for the pulse in the Elf's throat, which was thready and weak, and unstoppered his wineskin, adding a few drops from the brown phial to the cup. Raising the Elf's head he allowed a little to trickle into his mouth.  
"Good," he murmured, as the muscles moved to swallow. As he laid the Elf back, he heard the orcs returning. They were not pleased, he thought with an inner smile.

''Which one of thee is the fastest?'' He asked. ''Thou? Very well. Dost thou think that thou canst remember these words? Directly from the Mouth, so do not forget them.'' Painstakingly, he spoke, had the creature repeat it back to him and continued: ''Remember, the Lord Sauron is in my mind. I am his eyes here.'' His voice was silk-smooth, steel-hard.  
''Now take four and go, start running.'' He turned to the captain. ''Thou didst listen?''

''Yes, Lord.''

''Good. And make sure those orders are very firmly embedded in thy mind. Because I do not think all of thee are going to get out of here alive. Dost know whom this is? He bears the insignia of the Royal House of Lasgalen. He is probably a son of the King. How long before he is searched for? Dost think thou canst get back to thy sties faster than the Wood-Elves can follow thee?''

''More Elves to have some fun with,'' the orc grinned. ''A princeling, eh? Never had a royal one before.''  
There was a mutter of hungry laughter, but also the flicker of eyes into the trees around. If there were elven archers close by, the first they would know of it was an arrow flight.

''Thou wilt not have one now, if thou dost not move thy legs; the fun can wait. Start running and hope thou hast time. I will bring the Elf. I am faster.'' Unblinking violet eyes bored into the red ones, mastering them.

''Come on, then lads,'' the Orc barked. ''there might be more than this young 'un, if we're lucky, eh?''

As they moved, following the others who were now out of sight, Vanimórë stooped and picked up the Prince's bow, stabbed the arrows from the quiver into the ground, nocked, aimed and fired.  
The orcs fell with feathered shafts in their backs.

''So stupid, it is a wonder any of thee make it past pups,'' he muttered, as he picked the Elf up in his arms and broke into a run. He could tend the Elf, make the long journey back to the south...But he would be loathed for it. The youth would attempt to escape, and the hot southlands were no place for a child of the Great Wood.

_Not this time..._ He glanced down at the figure in his arms with regret.

The sound of a river became gradually louder in his ears, and he followed it. With each step the woods became more open, soft beds of moss and grass starred with flowers opened under fretted glimpses of sky. This was how he imagined an Elven forest to be, filled with birdsong, dappled patches of sunlight, a brightness to the very atmosphere, a sweetness in the air.

The river opened before him, glinting, with dips and swirls of froth as it plumed over rounded boulders.  
He set down the young Elf on a bed of grass, placed his hand over the black silk pad on his wound, and laid the knives beside him.

  
''May the One be with Thee, Prince of Lasgalen. Thou didst certainly make the day more...agreeable than I expected.'' The long lashes flickered and grey-blue eyes, cloudy and unseeing, stared at him before the Elf groaned: "Ada?"

"He will come."

  
"Ada?" The cry was louder. Vanimórë touched the white face lightly, kissed the tender lips and rose.

  
''Thou wilt heal. Farewell, until next we meet.''  
He spun on the ball of one foot and was gone, a black shadow slipping into the trees, back toward the north.~

~~~


	26. Fetters Reforged

  
It was to be a rule of almost one thousand years.  
The Dark Prince, they called him, as had the White Wolves long ago, for his somber clothes and hair. He never aged, nor did any illness afflict him, even in times of plague.  
Unlike Uwath, he did not loll on silken cushions, fanned by naked slaves, picking at sweetmeats and drinking wine. He became a warrior-King, the supreme commander of the finest army in the Harad. The deadliest assassin could not kill him, nor poisons strike him down, and he had the uncanny knack of knowing who schemed against him and made public spectacles of their terrible deaths.  
To the people of Sud Sicanna he seemed to have been there forever; Dark Prince, the Eyes of Sauron the Great. The ministers to whom he dictated his orders, growing old and dying in his service, could say with all honesty that they knew him no better at the end of their lives than when they had when first entered the palace as youthful scribes. He was impossible to know, save to a few, remote and charming. None could meet those strange eyes for long at a time, and they could punch through stone if he was angered.

Those who knew him best were his soldiers. All of them desired to emulate him; none could, but he was pleased by the army he molded, its discipline and loyalty. He had long wanted to know what he could do alone, answerable to no-one but himself, and the results were more than satisfactory.

Sud Sicanna flourished. Merchant princes and Sultans from as far east as Khand, as far south as the Lands of Spice, desired friendship and military aid. Many suggested closer ties through concubinage, offering sisters or slaves. The Dark Prince was fond of women, it was said, though he never took wives. He had abolished the seraglio clearances, where those no longer in favor were thrust into the streets to be stoned by the mob, and the temple had been rededicated to the worship of the Mother, whose cult existed in secret elsewhere. In Sud Sicanna women chosen for the palace came to be respected, and were given a dowry if they wished to leave and marry, which was often, for women who pleased the prince were clearly exceptional. In those years he wrote and illustrated a book, _The Garden of a Thousand Delights_. It became famous ever after, since it detailed every way a man and woman might find pleasure. Only six original manuscripts existed, but many were the copies and high was the price paid for them.

Yet gradually, the sense of Sauron grew stronger in Vanimórë's mind. He knew that one day, the Dark Lord would re-emerge from the shadows, return to Barad-dûr, and summon him. He would sit in his chambers amid the spice of incense, the perfume of heavy-headed roses and reach within himself to shore up his defenses. He would need them when he came before his father, and at that thought his heart would slam in heavy strokes against his breast. He knew what waited for him.

Well nigh a thousand years.  
And he always knew that the end would come.

~~~

They came at night. Vanimórë felt them and rode out to meet them, for he would not permit them in _ his _ city.  
It was the Black Númenorean who lead them. Once a mighty prince, the Mouth had enjoyed Vanimórë many times. And now he smiled.

''Slave of Sauron, thou art summoned.'' His voice was iron filings brushed by silk. ''It is time.''

''Yes,'' Vanimórë replied, calmly, ''I know.''

He had known it could not last, dreaded what would inevitably follow, and Sauron knew it. But Vanimórë would reveal nothing before the black-mocking eyes of the Mouth. He would keep his dignity, and ride to Mordor as a Prince.

_But to be free ! To be free..._ Not the freedom of Aman; that had depended on his repentance and obedience, and was simply another form of slavery. He wanted neither Sauron as master or the Valar as gaolers.  
He wanted no master at all.

Gondor's might never spread as far south as Sud Sicanna. There was no Dark Prince to defend it, but his legacy and legend lived on in the minds of the men of the south.


	27. Child Of Light And Darkness

 

  
~ **1981 Third Age **   
The reign of King Earnil, last but one ruler of Gondor, was a troubled one, and Vanimórë was sent from Mordor to watch and bring back information to Sauron. He had been accompanied on this journey by two of the Nazgûl, but parted from them some time before. He did not precisely have time on his hands, but neither had his father yet ordered him back.  
  
Of old there had been an Elf haven beyond the Ered Nimrais. Edhellond had been founded by Teleri mariners from Brithombar and Eglarest. Vanimórë had never seen it, but he was curious, as he was of all the places where Elves dwelt. He was not often in these lands however, until the year 1981, when he rose from a camp he had made and looked at the peaks of the White Mountains blazing against the sky. Summer was drawing to draw to its close with the first scents of the early autumn spicing the air at dawn and dusk; a melancholy acceptance of the waning of the year.   
  
He only knew long after that this was fore-ordained. From beyond the World the One lightly plucked the harp string that was Vanimórë's note in the Great Music, and another joined its harmony so that the two melodies might come together at last.   
  
He stepped lightly, making nothing of the snow, the cold, but it seemed that at times he heard among the peaks and corries, a voice crying out one word, over and over.  
  
The plume and rush of a torrent drenched him in fine spray as he followed its rise from a tarn in the mountains. It leaped towards the lower lands exuberantly, save for where it was checked by boulders and spread into a clear pool. A more distant and deeper laughter told that it then dropped again in swift falls on its way towards the sea.  
  
Night was come. Stars blazed overhead, but beside the mere was another soft light, sweet as moonfall.  
He made no sound as he walked towards it.  
  
An Elf woman lay beside the water, her hair a cloak of gold about her.  
He crouched down, his brows lifting, for this was the most unexpected sight he had yet seen in this land. As far as he was aware, the Elf-realms were far from here. The woman's eyes were blank with sleep, one slender arm over her head, the other resting across her stomach.  
Vanimórë sat and watched her until the sky began to lighten in rose-gold away to the east, and she stirred. Her eyes gained focuss sharply and she cried out.  
  
"Peace," Vanimórë said softly. "I mean thee no harm."  
  
Huge eyes stared at him from a heart-shaped face innocent as an open flower.  
"Who art thou?" she whispered, "Did he send thee? I ran, I was afraid. Where is he?"   
  
"I am a traveller in these lands," Vanimórë answered carefully. "Whom dost thou seek?" He extended his hand to raise her and after a moments hesitation she took it. Her mantle and gown were embroidered in gold thread, and her soft shoes were grey; over her brow was a silver circlet with a clear gem gleaming in the morning sun, and though her hair was disheveled by flight and sleep it fell in a primrose cloud , framing her face. She was exquisite as a linden blossom.  
  
She looked back toward the mountains.  
"Amroth...We pledged our love, and he promised to take me away to peace. Have you seen him?" She shuddered. "A shadow came, cold and black – terrible! I ran from terror before, the demon roused in Hadhodrond, whose shadow fell on my home."  
  
Vanimórë's eyes were emotionless. The Nazgûl; she had seen one or both of them. Amroth he knew from the wars of Eregion, and the Last Alliance. The woman was clearly talking of the awakening of the Balrog in Khazad-dûm, for Sauron was interested and had discussed it with his son. The Balrogs had perished or fled during and after the War of Wrath.   
  
"If Amroth were to take thee from Middle-earth, then he will go to the ancient Elf-haven, Edhellond." He raised one arm, pointing west. "It lies yonder, it is said, I will guide thee, for I have often desired to find it."  
  
A shadow of fear sparked in her grey eyes.  
"I fled." There was guilt in the words. "He called for me, and I did not heed it. I was too afraid."  
  
He could not deny the desire which moved him, for she was lovely, yet his mind had discerned her thoughts as she lay sleeping.   
"I will guide thee," he repeated. "And thou doth need my guidance, lady." His lashes swept down as his eyes moved from her face to her hips. "Thou doth carry the gift of thy love in thy womb; thou canst not journey alone."  
  
Her slim hand flew to her stomach.  
" Yes," she nodded. "It is so. Our love, our child. Wilt thou indeed lead me?"  
  
"I will." He unrolled his cloak and draped it over her shoulders, then opening his pack, brought out dried apples and autumn berries, drew water from the infalling stream at the pool's head for her to drink.  
  
_A gift from the One. Save she is not. _  
  
She went with him. Perhaps she knew she had no choice, but her eyes were often inward looking, as if feeling the spark of life within her womb.  
  
They went slowly and, as he guided her each touch of her skin made him ache with need, but his face showed only courtesy. He knew she thought him _Golodh,_ and mistrusted that kindred, but though her eyes strayed to him at times, her mind was occupied with finding her lover, and bent inward upon her unborn child.  
  
It was the autumn now, and although the lands at the southern feet of the Ered Nimrais were milder than those beyond its northern walls each morning brought deeper tints to the leaves, the patterns of frost to grass and cobweb. Vanimórë hunted, cooking meat and finding herbs to savor it, covered the woman with his cloak at night. He remained awake, scanning for any sign that another had been this way, listening for a voice crying, as he had heard in the mountains. But he knew if an Elf had passed here he would find no trace; his own feet and the woman's left no imprint in dew.  
  
"What is it, lord?" Her voice spoke from behind him.  
  
Vanimórë had turned and was looking back towards the mountains where the sky held a ragged array of clouds like torn war banners.  
  
"A storm is coming," he murmured. "From the north. We must find shelter, lady."  
  
He came to a small dell overhung with trees, with one rocky outcropping which formed at least some protection from the wind, as it began to rise.  
  
"Come," he drew her back against him, bringing his cloak about her. "This will be a wild night."  
  
The storm hurled itself down like a besieging army from the northern wastes. It was the most violent Gondor had ever seen; trees snapped, many ships were lost and in Edhellond, one last Elven ship was driven from its moorings and carried out into the Bay of Belfalas. From it an Elf with golden hair cried out in despair:   
''_ Nimrodel !_'' And dived into the seething waters.  
  
  
  
The buildings of Edhellond were abandoned, graceful and ancient. They had weathered the storm, but there was no-one there, no ships, no voices. Vanimórë searched the houses, before leading Nimrodel into one where some few things had been left, a bed, some delicately carven settles.  
  
"Why is no-one here?" she demanded, cupping her hands over her womb. "I was so sure...so sure..."  
  
"Thou must be calm, for thy child's sake, lady," he said. "He may have gone astray."  
  
"Yes...he may, the storm, perhaps he has been searching for me? But he will come." Her eyes searched his face as if for confirmation of her belief. "He promised we would leave the shadows..."  
  
Vanimórë kissed her hands. "Rest now," he said. "I will hunt and make a fire."  
  
Debris had been flung high over the harbor walls, sea-kelp and stones, creatures from the waters: urchin, egg sacks, dead fish. Fish he might catch or he would have to hunt, and he did not wish to go far.  
  
_ Why am I such a fool? _ he wondered, as he stepped down from the harbor onto the shingle below. _Because I have ever wanted an Elf to love me, and here is one is fallen into my lap ! A miracle, save that she loves another and is pregnant with his child._   
  
In a tide pool something gleamed pale under the thin sun, sea kelp drifting in a cloud of pallor. He paused and knelt.  
  
The Elf's body was waterlogged, heavy, but there was no other mark on him. Vanimórë raised his head and looked out across the sea.  
  
"Amroth." He cursed, succinctly, closed the once-bright eyes, and picked him up the dead Elven King.  
  
Only Vanimórë knew where Amroth lay, once King of Lórinand, and he never told Nimrodel. She waited, hoping, but something in her soul surely sensed her lover's death, for she became wan and silent, everything within her now bent upon the growing child.  
  
The babe was born in the summer, the sea sighing tranquilly, gulls mewling, the room scented with salt. Vanimórë laid him at her breast and Nimrodel smiled wearily, and then, gently as a leaf falling, she died.  
  
"Find him beyond the seas, Lady," he murmured. "Find peace. Find love again."  
  
He buried her beside the king she had loved, and sea-lavender grew on the mound ever after. But the child he stared at for a long moment, fierce longing and exultation in his eyes. His smile glinted in the sunlight.  
  
_A child; perfect, innocent, son of a king and a maiden lovely as a star. _  
  
''_Elgalad,_ I name thee,'' Vanimore said. ''And thou art _mine._''  
  
But what to do with him? Sauron, linked to his mind, saw what passed, and found it amusing. He commanded Vanimórë to bring the babe to Mordor, knowing that his son would resist, but that ultimately, he had no choice but to come. Vanimórë's memories flew back to the orphan child Sauron had killed before his eyes long ago – because he was permitted nothing of his own.  
  
_He is but a babe, I will train him, _ he said into that cold, waiting silence. _He will become a great warrior for thee. But he must not be broken. _  
  
There came no answer, only laughter that stripped him bare. Knowing he could never fool his father, Vanimórë turned back to the empty buildings, his face set like marble.  
  
Wild goats roamed on the slopes inland, and their rich milk fed the child. But men were beginning to push into this land, and Vanimórë could not remain here. But he had time. Sauron was preparing for an assault on Minas Ithil, lead by the Nazgûl, and if Vanimórë were strong enough to resist for a while, with his father's mind occupied by war, he might be able to savor this gift given into his hands by a dying Elf-woman; this beautiful child.   
  
Just for a while. Just for a little while.  
  
_Elgalad._  
  
  
  
~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elgalad Art by Chris Webb Digital Art
> 
> The story of Amroth, King of Lórinand (later Lothlórien) and the Elf-Maid Nimrodel, is taken from Unfinished Tales.  
> Amroth loved Nimrodel for many years and she, he, but she refused to marry him. When the Dwarves, delving too deep for Mithril in Khazad Dum, awoke Durin's Bane, the Balrog, Nimrodel fled from Lórinand. Amroth found her in the Ered Nimrais and they plighted their troth and Amroth was to have lead her to the southern Elf-Haven of Edhellond.  
> In the White Mountains they became separated and Amroth, coming to the harbor, found only one elven ship left there, ready to depart. Such was his grief at losing Nimrodel, that he pleaded that the mariners wait for her. This they did for several weeks, until a vast storm came from the north and tore their ship from it's moorings and drove it out to sea. Amroth, calling his lover's name leaped over the side and the Elves saw him battling the waves, as he fought to swim ashore.
> 
> It was never known what became of either Amroth or Nimrodel, so I have used the story as a basis for this. The description of Nimrodel, is, of course, taken from the Song that Legolas sang when the Fellowship had crossed into Lorien and the river which bore her name.  
> She and Amroth were both golden haired and passed that fairness to their son.
> 
> In this story, Amroth is not the son of Galadriel, (as one version suggests) but the son of Amdir, a Sindar, kin to Thranduil, and (again, in this AU) Amdir was the son of Beleg Cúthalion, as was Oropher.


	28. The Years Of Love

  
~ The two white butterflies seemed connected by an invisible thread as they twirled in the spring sun which flashed in silvery hair as the child danced in delight. His small feet were bare and white on the rich grass, his laughter pure as spring water, as his rain-colored eyes.

''Beloved lord, why do they play?''

Sitting against the bole of the tree, Vanimórë watched, a faint and unconcious smile lifting one side of his mouth.

''It is a dance for _Ethuil,_ Elgalad,'' he said. ''All living things celebrate it even as do the Children of Eru.''

''I wish I could fly,'' Elgalad said wistfully, as he watched the butterflies whirl higher into the bright air.

''Thou wilt be as swift as the wind, my dear. Thou wilt not need wings.'' Vanimórë rose, scooped the child into his arms and ran with him. Elgalad laughed, small arms clinging,and threw back his head as the wind streamed through his hair. When at last they came to a halt, he pressed an exuberant kiss on the hard cheek and smiled.

''I _did_ fly!'' He looked into the brilliant purple eyes which were all his world. His own were warm with adoration and trust as he was set on the grass. Sliding his hand into the larger one, he skipped beside Vanimórë, humming to himself.

Vanimórë looked down and his smile vanished, leaving his expression blank. He could never have succeeded in this if it were not for the timing. It was almost enough to make one believe there was some pity for him somewhere. Pity, or mockery of the cruelest kind.

Sauron wanted to capture Minas Ithil; he was bent upon that. Years were nothing to him, and perhaps he felt anticipation of the punishment he would inflict on his son for defying his commands. He could wait.

At first, Vanimórë had spent time in the gentle lands north of Dor-en-Ernil. He was an experienced traveler, knew how to survive in the wilds, and never set forth on any journey without taking everything he might need. He killed white wolves, silver fox, mountain lion, and took the pelts into Mens settlements to trade. Elgalad would accompany him strapped firmly to his chest, both of them hooded against casual scrutiny. The tall trapper was a mysterious figure, but trappers were odd people. Most lived solitary lives in wild places and appeared with their skins twice a year, before buying supplies and leaving.

Vanimórë cautioned the bright, curious child to say nothing when they entered any village.  
''_Quiet as a little mouse, understand?_''

He could have lived off the land, but he was no Power whom might walk unclad. They both needed garments. Weapons he had, but he traded the pelts for seemingly frivolous items: vellum, ink, charcoal, thin slabs of slate, a flute and harp.

When Elgalad was still young, they moved west towards the Isen and the great gap between the Hithaeglir and the Ered Nimrais. He often traveled at night, for the child loved the stars and would sometimes sing softly as they walked. If speed was needed, Elgalad would be carried, and sometimes he would fall asleep. He knew, with a child's profound assurance, that he was secure. Waking after many leagues, he would find that they had stopped and his lord had drawn him close. He would smile and sleep again, lulled by the strong heartbeat.

In earlier years, when Nimrodel had fled from the terror unleashed in Khazad-dûm, she had not entered the great forest of Fangorn, for the trees had seemed to be her unfriends and had barred her way. Of this ancient outlier of the forests long since destroyed by the Númenorean's, Vanimórë knew little. There were rumors that the ancient _Onodrim,_ the Shepherds of the trees, abode here. He did not enter it, but kept to the treeless wold to the east; rolling grassland, plentiful in game.

Vanimórë began to teach Elgalad, who soaked up learning as a sea-sponge. He had dreamed of one to whom he would be all-in-all, mentor and teacher and lord. Now he proceeded to pour his experiences it into the child's receptive mind. He taught Elgalad history, tales and poems, Sindarin, Quenya, tongues of Men, customs and Laws. He set the child's small fingers upon the flute and the strings of the harp, on the small bow and later curled them about the hilt of a sword. Every question the child asked was answered, save one which was never asked: whom Vanimórë was and where he had come from. He never told Elgalad his name, so the child called him "My lord," and his lord was the wellspring of all knowledge, his protector and guardian, but he had known since he was very young that Vanimórë was not his father. He was told that his parents had died when he was still a babe, and that surely they would be reborn to walk in Valinor.

''Thou wilt see them, one day,'' Vanimórë said gently, wiping away the confused, sparkling tears, and calling him _ Meluion. _ "Thou art a son of love," he smiled.

After that, Elgalad clung to him the harder. How could any-one withstand such an artless siege of trust and love? Vanimórë, a slave whom had loved only one person in all his life, could not. He found himself incapable of indifference. Each day he felt more needed, more responsible for this beautiful child, this benison for his soul. But he could not keep Elgalad; one day he would be forced to submit to the commands of Sauron, and he knew what his father would do to any-one he loved. He also knew that if he were forced to watch Sauron destroy Elgalad or, more dreadfully, was forced to harm the Elf himself, it would push him from the narrow shelf on which he walked and into black, blessed insanity. ~

~~~

 

Ethuil - Spring (Sindarin)  



	29. Beloved Lord

  
~   
~ ''But _how_ can a fish be felt without one touching it, my Lord?'' Elgalad's voice quivered with mirth.

Vanimórë was standing waist deep in the clear water. He leaned over, as if to reach for something on the river-bed, holding that position with utmost patience. His long hair trailed like a great stain of ink in the current.  
The answer came into Elgalad's mind. He had become used to this from a child, so that it seemed perfectly natural to exchange speech in this manner.

_ First become still, part of the river, something that has always been there, like a boulder. Hold the hands apart. When a fish swims between them, the water will feel thicker. Water confuses the eye, so trust only the feeling, when the water becomes somehow more solid. And then..._  
He straightened quickly, and flipped a gleaming silver fish onto the greensward.

Elgalad laughed as Vanimore waded from the river, wringing out his hair. He looked like some barbaric god; the sweeping tattoos shining jet, his eyes fire-bright, and Elgalad's laughter faded as he stared. His Lord's smiles were increasingly rare, but he loved to see how they so altered the stern face.

''Brown trout.'' Vanimórë speared the fish through the gills with a peeled stick. He flicked a knife from his thigh sheath and handed it hilt first to Elgalad. ''Thou may have the honor of preparing it. I will start the fire.''

Elgalad had come to realize that almost everything his mentor said contained knowledge. Some of it was purely practical: hunting, tracking, the habits of birds and beasts, some was lore, the history of Elves and Men. From what he had learned of the Three Kindred's of the Elves, Elgalad had decided that his mentor must be of the _Golodhrim_, black of hair, white skinned and so tall. Perhaps he was an Exile, lingering before he sought the ships which would carry him back to Aman. He was certainly an Elf. Elgalad had seen the differences between Mortals and Elves when very young. His lord was taller, his delicate ears were pointed at the tip, his skin fine-grained as quartz. Elgalad's youthful mind wove many fanciful tales of his lord's history. Not one could have come close to the truth.

The evening breeze roused after they had eaten, sweeping through the long grasses. Elgalad sat cross-legged as Vanimórë uncovered the small lap-harp, ran his fingers down the strings. The youth knew this tale and it moved him with its poignancy: the Lay of Leithien, Release from Bondage. As was their habit, Elgalad sang the next verse, and the stanzas passed from one to the other. Then a different melody sounded upon the wind and this one Elgalad had never heard before. It was a lament. He imagined some-one playing this into the night, far from home, further from hope. Tears stung in his eyes and when his Lord paused, he murmured, ''What is that?''

''It is called the _ Noldolantë,_ the Fall of the Noldor. Maglor, son of Fëanor made it long ago.''  
Something in his tone caused Elgalad to whisper, ''I am sorry.''

''There is ever a price exacted for greatness and brilliance, Meluion. It seems that the Powers ensure against it, or it is woven into Arda Marred.''

  
***

  
Elgalad jerked into consciousness. He wore a dagger at his hip and reached for it as he came to his feet, wondering what had woken him from the pleasant, sunlit dream. The small fire had been tended, indicating his lord had added fagots not long before, but he was nowhere in sight. Elgalad called his name, his eyes sweeping the grassland, his pulse jumping as no answer came back.

_My lord? _

~~~

The grass had hidden him. He lay as if he had fallen headlong or been taken down by an arrow, but there was no mark on him. Tugging, Elgalad turned him on his back, seeing the purple eyes staring at nothing, and sought desperately for his pulse, exhaling in relief when he found it strong and fast.

''My Lord...my dear lord...''

Vanimórë's hands came up and Elgalad found himself on his back, staring up into the face which was a stranger's, with something in the eyes that he had never before seen. It lashed both a chill and a strange, alien thrill through him. Blue-black hair cascaded over him, and his breath lay indrawn in his throat as his Lord's head bent. He felt the touch of lips on his brow and his heart tripped over. Then...  
''I am sorry.'' And, as if he spoke words to some-one invisible, he said with quiet vehemence, ''_ I. Will. Not._''

He said scarcely anything for the rest of that day as they ran, seemed to close himself off, and whereas their journeys had sometimes been swift before, now his Lord seemed driven.

Vanimórë was not sure how long he could fend off Sauron's coercion. It was taking all he had. The pain of the last punishment still burned each nerve and the Red Eye branded on his back throbbed as if blisters formed on it.

_Meluion...I will fight him, but I have to leave thee! _

''What is that forest, my Lord?'' Elgalad asked, uncertainly. Vanimórë glanced down at him remotely. An inner wall seemed to have been erected since that strange moment when he had thrown Elgalad down.

''It is called Lórinand,'' Vanimórë murmured, and his eyes were opaque. He appeared to be listening to something, but all Elgalad could hear was the rustle of wind through the grasses and more distantly, the sough of leaves on the forest eaves.

_Is it well nigh fifty years? _

Elgalad was was deemed almost an adult now; he would be tall as his father, with a face as beautiful as his mother's. The waterfall of hair brushed his knees, and glinted silver. He reminded Vanimórë a great deal of another Elf of Sindar lineage seen long ago. Elgalad must go to his kin. There was no other way. The time had come.

  
When Amroth was lost, leaving no heir, Galadriel and Celeborn had come to Lorinand and were welcomed by its people. They took no royal titles, and were named Lord and Lady, guardians of this beautiful realm. Vanimórë, senses reaching forth, felt the presence of power deep within the distant woods, white, shining, denying the dark. He knew not that the daughter of Finarfin bore Nenya, one of the Three Elven Rings, but he felt something powerful and protective within those woods.

Elgalad should go there, he thought. It was after all his home, and had that not been in his mind even as he came north? For a long time he stared at the youth expressionlessly.

''What is it, my Lord?'' Elgalad asked, troubled.

''This is where I wanted to bring thee, child,'' Vanimórë said, at last. ''A place of beauty, where thou canst live with thy kin. Thy parents lived there.''

''My father and mother dwelt here?'' Elgalad asked wonderingly. He took an eager step toward the far away trees and then looked back over his shoulder, eyes glowing. ''Thou didst bring me so far! Come!''

Vanimórë briefly shook his head, one gesture holding a world of finality.  
''I cannot come. This is not my home. And where I go, thou canst not follow.''

Elgalad's shoulders fell, he took a breath and turned back.  
''What meanest thou? I will not leave thee. If thou must go on, so will I.''

''I tell thee no. Thou must go to Lórinand alone. Thou wilt be welcomed there.''

''No ! I will only go with thee !'' Elgalad flung himself toward Vanimórë, and the backhanded blow sent him reeling, landing him on his back in the grass. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and he wiped a hand over it, startled. Astonished tears sparkled in his eyes.  
A hand like steel siezed his tunic and effortlessly lifted him. Elgalad stared into eyes that held red embers in their depths.

''Thou wilt die in untold agonies if thou doth stay with me. I am ordered to take thee to my Master, each year since thy birth the command has grown stronger. And I cannot save thee from him. He would kill thee before mine eyes.''

Fear iced through Elgalad and and the tears welled over, spilling down his cheeks.  
''My Lord, please! I do not understand. How have I displeased thee?"

''Be silent!'' Vanimórë snapped like a whip, causing a flinch to shudder through Elgalad's body. ''Oh, child, thou canst not understand. Listen now. I have told thee of Mordor and its Lord Sauron. He owns me, binds my soul to his. I am his slave. Shall I tell thee what he would do to thee?''

''No!'' Elgalad choked.

''Thou wilt go to Lórinand. Thou wilt live, and thou wilt forget me. Dost thou understand?''

A sob escaped Elgalad's lips.  
''I do not believe thee ! Sauron could not be thy master._ I love thee ! _''

Throwing back his head Vanimore laughed bitterly.

''_Please!_ Thou canst not send me from thee!''

''Thou dost not know me. I am not worthy of thy love. Now go!"  
Armies had obeyed that voice. As he loosed his hold on the tunic, Elgalad stumbled back, and found himself staring down the length of a nocked bow.  
''This is an easier death than my master would give thee,'' his Lord said. "Do not think I will not kill thee to spare thee."

His mind hazed with shock, Elgalad backed away and then turned and ran toward the distant forest, unable to see through his tears.

''My Lord!...'' He stumbled to a halt and fell to his knees, then dashed a hand over his eyes and looked back. There was a dark line of forest in the east.

''Once it was named Greenwood the Great,'' Vanimórë had told him. ''Then a shadow fell upon it; they name it Mirkwood now. There are Elves of the Silvan folk in the north.''

Far away he saw a tall black figure, and then some fold in the land hid him from view. He was gone.

''_No._ '' He rose, his face set with determination, his heart breaking with love.  
As the umber fingers of sunset drew across the land, Elgalad followed his beloved Lord. ~

~~~

  


  


**Chapter End Notes**:  


  


Hadhodrond - Khazad-dûm

  


 


	30. A Candle In The Darkness

  


~ Vanimórë came brutally back to consciousness, feeling fire throb through his nerves.  
There were icy slabs under his cheek, gritty with ancient dust, and he knew that if he lifted his head he would see Khamûl. He felt the Nazgûl's presence like a gap into nothing. But it was not the wraith that had visited such pain on him. He had walked casually into Dol Guldur as if there was nothing the matter in his world, and Khamûl asked, ''Where is the Elf?''

"I am alone, _old friend,_" Vanimórë' glinted. ''He is in the woods of Lórinand.''

The blow from Sauron's mind had been like a many-lashed whip, striking, then burrowing into every nerve. It was done savagely, with a great deal of skill. The aether echoed with screams of agony.

Khamûl waited through the punishment, patient as a stone. He been ordered not to touch the Slave, so he had not; a Morgul-forged blade would be venomous, but it would not pull this one into the undead world the Nazgûl inhabited, and Sauron had never desired his son to be one of them. Now, from the shadows, he said dispassionately, ''Our Master desires me to conduct the both of thee to Mordor.''  
And the words struck Vanimore like a fist.

_Both of us._

He pushed himself up, raising his head from under sweat-damp swirls of raven hair, his blazing eyes fixed on those hidden ones.

''Where is he, Khamûl?''

~~~

Elgalad had ever been drawn to trees, their slow existance, their strength and beauty as time hardened around the tree-rings. The woods of Lórinand had beckoned him, filling him with longing to walk under their boughs, touch their bark, hear the song of their leaves.

These trees seemed to grow in torment, their trunks writhing, branches interlacing to block out the sky. A dank mist oozed about their boles, corpse-pale flowers exuded foul odors, pale fungal growths forced themselves form the soil as if sprouting from forgotten corpses. What life there was here was deformed and accursed and he was terrified, but his lord had gone into this place.

"My Lord?" he whispered, his words swallowed by the bitter fog.  
He had looked back many times, but forced himself on as nameless fear unfurled itself within him, slowly becoming a dread so deep that all he could hear was the hectic pound of his heart. There was no birdsong, no sound pierced the heavy air. He had never known evil, but he felt it here; his scalp and flesh prickled, bleeding cold perspiration.

Over and over in his mind, he re-lived his Lord's last words and actions, fixing on something, anything but this place which threatened to reduce him to blank terror. The blow, the speech, the look in his eyes had shaken Elgalad to his soul, but set against that, was fifty years of care and kindness.

The youth's heart was deeply and innocently loving; Vanimórë, whose face had been the first he saw, received that love in full measure. When he broke into his rare, charming smile, if he laid a hand on his ward's shoulder or braided his hair, Elgalad _glowed_.

Vanimórë had seen this of course, but the only love he had ever felt was for his long dead twin; it was _only_ that memory which induced him to protect the child so unexpectedly and marvelously given into his arms.  
Was it not?  
_How pathetic is this_? he had thought with bewilderment. _All he wants is to be with me. What in the name of Eru can he see in me to love? Yet he does. _

Vanimórë denied he returned that love, but he admitted he was possessive. Elgalad was his, no-one else would touch him, no-one had the right. He had to protect him, and he could only do that by letting him go.

He had been certain that once Elgalad had been shocked enough he would gladly flee to Lórinand. The look of hurt on the lovely face had dented his resolve, but there was no other way. Sauron would break Elgalad for no other reason than that Vanimórë cared for him.

_A bitter jest indeed. I was given exactly what I had so long desired, as if guided to the Ered Nimrais, to the pregnant Elf-woman; fortune even gave me a time when my father's mind was on other matters to raise the child. And all I can do is let him go._

~~~

The darkness suddenly came to life about the Elgalad, a blackness which moved with cold malice toward him, resolving into a figure in long robes. In horrified flashes, Elgalad saw cruel gauntlets, a sword, the black sheen of armor. His hand flew to his own weapon as he tried to remember what his lord had taught him in the last years. But the thing approached him inexorably, pushing a bone numbing chill before it and he struck out wildly, blade meeting blade almost by accident rather than skill. Pain struck through his hand, speared up his arm and he cried out, but he forced his muscles to lock. He half-saw an armored hand rise, and then it descended like a hammer on his head. He swayed, knew he was falling and then all sight and sound were snuffed out.

Turning to the orcs waiting in the twisted trees, the Nazgûl whispered, ''Take him to the fortress. No touching. He is to go to Mordor and our Master unharmed.''

~~~

Vanimórë slapped dust from his breeches as he rose, his eyes still holding the wraith's. He sought Elgalad's mind and found it unaware.

''The Elf is unharmed," Khamûl said indifferently. ''He is to be taken to our Master unspoiled.''

With one flaming look, Vanimórë strode to the door, flinging it open, seized a torch from the wall and took the stairs in leaps, coming to the prisons where two great orcs stood beside an iron-studded door.

''Open it,'' he barked.

''Lord, no-one is to speak with the prisoner,'' one of them protested, black eyes flicking nervously up the dark passage, as if wishing the Nazgûl would arrive to support him.

''Art thou truly trying to tell _me_ no? Whom dost thou think brought this Elf so far, fool?''

Since no-one had told the guards anything but that the Elf was to go to Mordor, this was not a point the orc felt able to contest. He was relieved – which in the present of one of the Cold One's was startling enough – when the Wraith appeared along the corridor. There was a nod from the hooded head and the orc fitted a great iron key into the lock, turning the ring.

Vanimórë thrust it back, entered the cell, and slammed the door shut behind him. It was possible Khamûl might have orders to lock him in, but if so, it would not be for long. Tonight was the dark of the moon; this would be when they would leave.

The cell was dank, its walls weeping with moisture. Not even a heap of rotting grass provided any sort of bed. It contained only Elgalad, curled up in one corner, his faint luminescence vanishing with the wash of torchlight. Setting the torch in a bracket, Vanimórë crouched down and lifted the cold form against his chest.  
"Meluion." He spoke the name gently as if waking the Elf from sleep, and Elgalad stirred. Pain flickered across his features, he blinked and then the huge eyes snapped wide in terror. The expression which banished it would have melted all but the coldest of hearts, such gladness and faith did it contain.

''My L-Lord..! I s-saw...'' His hand rose to his head and he winced.

''Hush, let me see.'' Vanimórë gently ran his fingers through the thick hair. Elgalad had been struck, not wounded by knife or blade. Sauron did not want him overly hurt.

''I saw something...t-terrible.'' The grey eyes clung desperately to Vanimórë's. ''Where...where is this p-place?''

''This is the place I did not wish thee to come to, young fool. It was one of the Úlairi who captured thee, I told thee of them, the Nazgûl. This is Dol Guldur. It is a place of great evil.''

''L-Lord, it c-cannot be true...what thou d-didst tell me....'' Elgalad's voice sank, became inaudible.

''_All_ I told thee was true. And tonight we will be escorted from here to Mordor. There thou wilt come before Sauron, and he will kill thee slowly before my eyes.''  
The words were deliberately brutal, and Elgalad searched his face wildly for something to tell him that this was all a dream birthed by that dreadful forest of nightshade, that he was not truly here.

''I commanded thee to the woods where thy kin dwell, beyond the Anduin!" Vanimórë blazed. ''I told thee what was purposed for thee, and still thou needs must follow? Art thou utterly witless?''  
He set Elgalad down, who broke into gasping sobs and wrapped his arms around his knees. Vanimórë turned from him and pounded on the door with his fist.  
''Bring wine, water and food, dost think the Master wants his prisoner starved and half-dead?''

Kneeling again, looking at the bent head, he said softly, ''My dear, listen to me. I am nothing against Sauron, but I will not let him have thee. When the time comes thou must run, understand me? Go north. There are Silvan Elves who dwell there.''

Elgalad lifted his face. ''I cannot l-leave thee! What am I without thee?''

'Thou art alive without me, Meluion,'' Vanimórë said grimly. Tears shook from the long lashed eyes which stared at him so piteously, and he drew Elgalad close. The strong young arms clung to him.

_If he disobeys me this time, he is indeed dead and there will nothing I can do to save him. _

He soothed Elgalad as his mind turned over plans, discarding and examining. In the end, he decided, it would have to be simple force which dealt with the orcs. As for Khamûl, Vanimórë could not destroy him, but he could certainly make his existance somewhat...untenable.~

~~~

 


	31. Thou Must Run From Me. And Him.

~ Behind them, the door creaked open and a sack was thrust through before it closed again. Vanimórë opened it and brought out a wine and water skin, flat loaves of bread and strips of salt meat. The wine was good, rich and ruby colored; when Vanimórë came to this place he brought his own Dorwinion Red Harvest. He made Elgalad eat, then lave is face and hands with the water. It was clean, but held a musty tang.

''My l-lord?''

''Yes?''

''W-what will happen t-to thee, where w-wilt thou go?''

''I go to Mordor.'' Vanimórë smoothed back the silver-bright hair. "I have resisted Sauron's call so I could see thee grow and bring thee to a safe place. Anyhow, his mind has been bent on other matters."

''How does he h-hold thee?'' Elgalad whispered. ''Thou art n-not evil.''

''Oh, child.'' A chill smile hovered on Vanimórë's lips. ''Thou knowest nought of me. Thy life is an eyeblink of time to me. I was born in lands now washed by Belegaer's waves, and in a place made dark with sorcery and hate. I have never been anything but a slave, a warrior...and a plaything. But thou art not as I. Love motivates thee, not hate. Perhaps love is strong, Elgalad, but it will not save thee in Barad-dûr. I could not help thee if thou shouldst fall into Sauron's hands.''

''Will..._h-he_ punish thee?'' the question was asked in a small, wavering voice. ''If..if I escape?''

''He will not kill me.'' Vanimórë read the tumultuous thoughts. ''I am too useful. But thou wouldst not live. I have seen another Elf tortured there, and there have been many others I have never known of, I do not doubt. But that one was old, very strong, I was able to save him. And the time was propitious. This time I could not. Once the Morannon closed behind thee, it would be the end. Thy soul is a bright one, but it would go out like a candle in that black east wind.''

Elgalad looked at him in the spluttering torchlight, tears shimmering in his eyes. ''Why didst thou raise me, p-protect me...why, if it comes to th-this?'' the words were broken.

''Ah, the question.'' Vanimórë rose, black hair cascading over one shoulder in untended whorls. ''I wanted some-one...untouched, loving.'' A shrug. ''Thou didst seem a gift to me. But it cannot be.''

''My L-Lord, all my life thou h-hast defied him!" Elgalad reached out to him with his hand, with his very soul. Its pull was impossibly powerful; as strong as Sauron's will. And Vanimórë had to resist both.  
"If I can escape, we b-both can! We can go s-somewhere... anywhere...!''  
Fear had brought a stammer to the soft voice, not on any particular vowel or consonant, but a slight stumble over words.

''Elgalad, at the last I would be driven mad,'' Vanimore murmured. ''And I would not know what I did. I might kill thee myself.''

''I w-will risk that! Please...I am th-thine, ... th-thou art _all_ to m-me!''

Vanimórë span on one foot, his fist lashing out to strike the wall. Elgalad flinched, expecting to hear the crack of bone. The raven head bent, the slender fingers spread on the stone, fingers sheened in blood.

''I have nothing.'' His voice was calm. ''I _am_ nothing. I am owned, but I do not _own thee. _ Thou art thyself, and thou may have a life free of corruption with thy kin here, or over the sea. That is what I would advise thee, to go west to the Havens, and take ship and leave Middle-earth. Find thy mother and father.''

Elgalad came forward, tentatively reaching out a hand.  
''Thou h-hast said Valinor is a p-place that ...he...n-no evil can come. If th-thou sailed from these shores, he could never h-hurt thee again. Thou wouldst be free.''

''They would not accept me in Aman, child. I made that choice long ago.'' Vanimórë turned, and his uninjured hand touched the high-boned face. ''So beautiful...I would see thee unsullied. Pitch sticks, I would not have thee defiled.''

''Thou art n-not pitch !'' Elgalad cried ''Do n-not miscall thyself, my L-lord. My _d-dear_ Lord. I _am_ thine ! And yes, thou ownest me!'' He stared resolutely into the wild violet eyes as a hand gripped his chin.

''I own thee? I am thy Lord?''

''_Yes_''

''Then I command thee to be quiet, henceforth,'' he said. ''We have not much time.''

Of course the premeditated plan of his Slave was known to Sauron; Vanimórë knew that, he had long ago accepted that he had no mental defenses. Thus would Khamûl know and have his own orders from the Dark Lord.

_Too bad, old friend. I admit I am desperate._

The door opened not long after, and Elgalad flinched at the sight of the orcs. Their feral eyes seemed to lick over him, and he would have backed away save that his lord did not. He stood, arms crossed, one slim hip kicked out in a provocative and oddly alluring gesture.

The orcs stepped to one side as the Nazgûl entered, black robes swirling behind him, and if Elgalad felt instant antipathy for the orcs, this being slammed his heart against his breast in renewed terror. He moved closer to Vanimore's side.  
Who drawled, ''Well?''

''Our master orders thee to travel bound,'' Khamûl pronounced.

''Somehow that does not surprise me, old friend.'' Vanimórë placed his wrists together before him in apparent submission, and manacles were snapped around them.

Although the orcs jeered and licked their lips at the sight of Elgalad, they did not mishandle him save to push him roughly onward. He thought he was walking through a path paved of despair, assaulted by dreadful odors and grating voices. Only the smooth, unhurried strides of his lord provided a tether to cling to against the panic which roiled within him. He did not even know where they were going, but Vanimórë knew; they were heading south to Rhovannion, the fastest route to Mordor.

There was scarce food to be found in the forest, the animals fleeing before the unearthly terror of the Nazgûl. The orcs, therefore, were pleased to come out onto the grasslands where they could hunt. The Úlairi did not need nourishment, but they allowed time for those who must feed. On the first night out of the forest, four orcs were ordered to search out hare or grouse while others gathered wood for a fire.  
Elgalad could not understand their jagged tongue, and Vanimórë did not interpret. They were speaking of the amusement that could be had with the Elf, and his ultimate fate, yet they knew they had to cosset the pretty flower or suffer death by the Nazgûl's hands now, or more terribly at Sauron's in Mordor. They had pushed him down away from the fire but no-one, Elgalad noticed, laid a hand on his lord, who strolled across and sank down beside him. Comforted by the stalwart presence, he pressed closer.

_It will be tonight. _

Elgalad did not start, but he stiffened a little, swallowing.

_ Return to the margin of the forest and head north. It will not be as it is around Dol Guldur but still thou wilt need to use all thy skills of hunting and the journey will be long. There are settlements of men along the fringes of the eastern woods, perhaps thou might obtain aid there if thou doth need it. They do not love strangers, but they are not evil of heart. Now listen well: There is a road which runs east-to-west across the forest. It was by the Dwarves long ago. Beyond it Elves of the Woodland King Thranduil, patrol but to the south there are spies of Mordor on watch. Use the trees; they are thy friends, rest in their boughs, run through their canopy. _

Pain thrust into Elgalad's throat and closed it, but his mind screamed out:  
_ I do not wish to leave! When will I see thee again? Please..!_

_ I ask this of thee, as thy lord. When I give the word, run and do not look back. Look at me, child. I will show thee a thing..._

Although the fire burned behind them, Vanimórë's eyes glowed like living gems and, held fast by them, Elgalad fell into the images therein.

He saw his Lord in places which reeked of so much horror that his soul flinched before it. He watched him tortured, abused. He fought desperately in dark pits against things Elgalad had never imagined existed: creatures of dark and terrible fire wielding whips and swords. He saw him flogged, burned...and _ Oh, dear Eru...saw him mounted by great wolves, by orcs.._ Elgalad would have vomited had he not been held in frozen shock.  
He saw his lord wearing a collar attached to a chain, while the one who held it watched him perform dances, before dragging him to kneel at his feet. He watched his lord impale himself on an engorged shaft, take it in his mouth...then he was at war, armored in sable, killing with moves that were a smooth, emotionless ballad of violence. And always, in repeating spasms, the humiliation, the pain, the usage.

Elgalad hardly knew he was weeping, and somewhere under it moved a feeling new to him: rage against the evil which hurt the one he loved, and took pleasure in it.

_I will save thee from that._ The voice in his mind was as he had always known it, rich and lilting. He looked up, confounded that some-one who had endured so much could look so unbowed.

The tiniest noise drew his attention down. His lord's manacled hands were clenched, the tendons of his arms, forged by Ages of war, strained against the metal bonds.  
With an sharp _crack,_ a link parted and Vanimórë seemed to explode from the ground like a black whip of lightning.

There were five orcs left to guard the prisoners and the fire. Khamûl had faded into the darkness, misliking the flames, but he was close; Vanimórë heard the ring of his sword being drawn.

Gaping, dropping their flasks of harsh liquor, the orcs surged to their feet, hands groping for their weapons. There were two blinding double kicks and the snap of bone. Vanimórë rolled to his feet, picking up a dropped blade and contemptuously knocked the oncoming weapon aside, driving his own into the throat. A spray of black blood followed its withdrawal. One orc nocked an arrow, and the shaft gouged a deep gully in Vanimórë's bicep. He cursed, spun and sheared through the neck.

It was all so fast that Elgalad was nailed in shock where he sat, then feeling that dreadful, piercing cold behind him, he hurled himself forward. A grasp of burning ice seized his long hair.

The last remaining orc had run. A knife hummed through the air and buried itself in his neck.

Crying out in fear, tearing at the unhuman grip on his hair, Elgalad thought he saw a shadow streak past him, then a voice spoke behind him: ''Cold, out there in the dark on the other side, is it not, _old friend?_'' There was a sudden stench of burning cloth.

_Fire... what did he tell me about the Úlairi and fire? It is one of the things they are vulnerable to..? _

Elgalad ran for the blaze, dragged out part of a flaming branch and ran back. Two handed, he swung the brand at the Nazgûl's back.  
Pain shrieked into his hands and wrists, made him groan, but he held on until he saw the black cloth aflame, and then the Nazgûl was enveloped in it and fleeing. Elgalad staggered, feeling his arms aching as if something had cracked through his bones.

''My l-lord?'' he gasped.

Vanimórë did not answer as he checked the bodies and returned with a ring keys.

''Hold,'' he said briefly and fitted one, twisting it. The manacles fell apart. Propelling Elgalad by one arm, he lead him to the packs and opened them, picking up his scimitars and harness. When he had buckled it, he fitted Elgalad's, retrieving the bow and bow and quiver.

''Wine,'' he said, putting the skin across Elgalad's head. ''Little to eat, I am afraid. Thou wilt have to hunt. Flint and tinder. Now go. The others will be back shortly. They hear keenly. Go.''  
His left arm was shone with blood in the firelight.

''Please...let m-me tend to thy w-wound,'' Elgalad stammered.

''Child, I know how to treat wounds,'' Vanimórë said. ''Be off now, The Úlairi cannot be destroyed by fire. He will return.''

''No, no... .._please !_''

''Go !'' Strong hands turned him. ''_Go,_ Meluion.''

Elgalad hurled himself against the only person he knew, and all the love he had ever known. His arms locked desperately. Vanimórë held him for a moment, then disengaged himself, tilted up Elgalad's chin.

''Go free,'' he whispered. ''Go, my dear. _Go._'' In the distance, they heard running feet and cries.  
''_Run! _''

His heart stricken, his mind crying out, Elgalad fled, and his soul ran back to join with his lord's.

_Beloved child, thou truly dost not know what I am capable of, what I need, or desire. There is no time, no place, no world for us and thou must run, Elgalad. Away from me, as much as from Him..._. ~

 

 

~~~


	32. The Embrace Of The Great Wood

 

  
~ _Use the trees...they are thy friends, rest in their boughs, run through their canopy._

These trees grew naturally, not as they had about Dol Guldur. They were ancient, huge, their upper branches carrying a sound like the sea as Elgalad leaped for a branch high over his head and pulled himself up. He felt the boughs give and spring under his feet as he jumped to another, and another.

It seemed as if the trees themselves aided him; no twig snarled his hair, the leaves parted for him and the headlong flight became intoxicating. His blood absorbed the the scents of oak and ash, the resinous deep green of tall pine and they gathered to fling him north like a leaf upon a south wind.

At last he saw the sky paling, the last stars withdrawing into the soft gold of the eastern sky. He shinnied higher, following the central bole of the tree.

The forest spread around him, a dark fleece that flushed into every imaginable shade of green under the sun's rays. It appeared limitless and immense as he gazed west where, far away, the distant bastions of Towers of Mist were painted out of greyness by the dawn. Their floating peaks still held snow. The north was measureless with trees. He turned his gaze east and saw in the distance, unknown rolling lands which went beyond his eyesight or his ken. He looked south, and then closed his eyes tightly.

_... love is strong, but it will not save thee... _

''My l-lord...'' he whispered.

A harsh crow-call flicked his eyes open. A dark shape flapped past him, to alight further away. Avian eyes watched him as the bird cocked it's head.

_ There is a road which leads through the Great Wood....on the south of it, there are spies of Mordor on watch._

He lowered himself back down, the light around him green-golf and he listened, hearing the dim piping of small birds. In a series of leaps, he landed softly on the floor of the forest.

Not much light came here but it was enough for him and there was no sense of the cloying evil of the woods around Dol Guldur. He unstoppered the wineskin and drank deeply, took a handful of dried meat and ate it. His lord had been right, he would have to hunt, but as the day went on he saw few signs of any forest animals. The trees was simply too deep; coneys or grouse, a staple of any hunter, did not live in deep woods, and he saw no deer tracks. There were squirrels, but they were strange, with black pelts and eyes and, unlike most animals, vanished at his approach. He heard no sound of running water only the endless rustle of the wind high above him.

He took to the trees again after a while, remembering his lord's words of settlements to the east. There must be game and water aplenty beyond the forest's eaves if Men dwelt there.

That night, cradled against the solid bole of an ancient oak, Elgalad drifted into dream.

~~~

_...A river ran past their shelter forming a pool where Elgalad bathed. After, he lay on the greensward and let the sun dry him, feeling the gentle tug of a comb through his damp hair..._

''Tell me of Lúthien Tinúviel again, please?'' he asked, for although he was too young to understand, he was entranced by the sadness and beauty of the story.

''What are the Silmarils?''

''Where is Valinor?''

''How did Elbereth make the stars, my lord?''

Warm, golden days, drowsy with the scent of cypress and herb. No fear, no thought for the morrow, nights showered with stars and always the constant, strong presence of his lord.  
Who was....  
Gone

His eyes focused abruptly. The tree was comforting, creaking faintly in a lulling rhythm, the whisper of the leaves soothing. But he could not be soothed; he felt utterly alone. The vastness of the night did not trouble him, nor his solitude, but the separation from the one he loved was a loneliness beyond bearing. Tears were cold on his cheeks.

_He will be punished. He slew those orcs, he challenged the Nazgûl...I cannot live without him, I would rather die with him..._

A shudder lanced through his veins as what he had seen. The torment and the depravity of his lord's usage drove him to his feet. He balanced effortlessly on the smooth bark, shaking violently not knowing where in the lonely night his lord was and needing him desperately, just to know he still lived...

_ Is that what evil truly is? To take delight in pain and not be able to imagine how it might feel in one's own flesh? Is it lack of empathy? But he said he would live and commanded me to go on, but to what..? _

There was a flashing flicker of pale hair in the gloaming, and then Elgalad was gone.

Mirkwood, as now it was named, was the greatest forest of the north. Long ago, on their journey west from Cuiviénen, the Quendi had looked up and seen the Towers of Mist - greater in those days, thrust from the earth by Melkor to hinder the passing of Oromë - and some had turned aside, dwelling in the forest close to the Great River. There had always been Elves here, although, as the darkness spread, they had withdrawn further northward.

Vanimórë himself knew little about their culture, save their last King was a survivor of Doriath.* He had been to Dol Guldur, crossed through the forest to the south and east, but never gone as far as the Forest Road. He said that an arrow fired by a Silvan archer could hit one targeted leaf on a tree in black night, and even he could not go unnoticed in the area's patrolled by the warriors of the Elvenking. But, he had continued, Elgalad was an Elf, even if a stranger, he would not be shot, although he would undoubtedly be taken for questioning.

The journey would have taken longer had Elgalad stayed on the forest floor. As it was, he believed it would never end. The trees seemed to roll under him like the unceasing green waves of a sea which lapped the edges of the world.

He followed the sun and stars further east, coming to the marge of the woods and was able to catch grouse and hare to eat. He saw, at times, thin smoke rising from assarts and wooden long-houses behind high stockades, but did not approach them. He kept his own cooking fires small, digging a pit in the earth, using only the driest of dead wood, covering it with earth and laying turves over it. After, he would return to the forest. He preferred the trees to the grasslands, dark and wild though they were. The leaf-song comforted him through the haze of grief over his mind, the trees held him when he rested.

He stopped suddenly, snapped from the traitorous wanderings of his anguished mind. Greater daylight was visible through the branches. After a time of hesitation, he slipped to the ground.  
Before him, the trees failed, though young saplings and fern cloaked the pathway. Once it had been a road, wide and almost straight. Now the trees boughs all but met overhead, but this was certainly the road of which his lord had spoken.

Elgalad crouched down, examining the ground. Yes, this was not natural, it was a definite demarcation line, cutting the forest in twain.  
The Forest Road.  
Beyond, so it was said, was the realm of the Elves.

_ But I do not know them...why would they welcome me? _

He took a step forward, almost expecting a flight of arrows to hurtle from the opposite trees and impale him, and such was his misery, he did would not have cared if they had.

_ I would not see them, my lord told me, even if they were there. _

The one denizen of Mirkwood he had not seen, he had been on the watch for since fleeing.

Spiders. Vanimórë had told him of Ungoliant, Ungwë Lianti, the creature who aided Morgoth in destroying the Two Trees of Valinor, and of others in Beleriand who she had bred with. They had crept into the Great Wood with the Shadow. Orcs used their poison, added to other foul concoctions, to coat their weapons and these could even make an Elf sick. He had instructed Elgalad to attack their multi-clustered eyes with his blade, and avoid becoming surrounded. Vanimórë had been more concerned over the young Elf meeting with those creatures than anything else. They tended to dwell in colonies, however, and one noiseless Elf might go unseen and unnoticed. He would not have wagered on it, but then Elgalad had at least a chance. In Mordor there would have been none.

_My dear Lord, where art thou? Please..please... _ With a deep, shaking breath, Elgalad crossed the ancient road and into the trees.~

~~~

  


  


** Chapter End Notes: **

  


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**

  


* For the purposes of this story, Thranduil was young during the sack of Doriath

  



	33. Silent Guardian

 

  
~ Vanimórë bound up the arrow wound, salvaged what he needed and departed before the orcs returned. He fought the poison on the weapon for a few days of fever. It was not so potent on him, but he was not immune to it.  
Sauron was enraged, but he gave no orders for any to to pursue. He knew his son had to return to Mordor eventually, and there the Dark Lord could spend as long as he desired in showing the recalcitrant slave exactly whom was Master of his body and soul. It was a lesson which bore repeating. Often.

These were the years of the last King of Gondor, and Sauron's mind was bent on other matters. The Witch-king would challenge Earnur to combat, and the King would be lost in Minas Morgul. The line of the Stewards would take up the rule of the South Kingdom. It would be a thousand years before another King sat upon the throne in Gondor.

_I will come when I come, my lord,_ Vanimórë taunted, and felt his nerves flame and his muscles cramp at the flash of anger. Of course he would return to Mordor, he had no choice. He could be coerced there, prodded like a beast by the Dark Lord's will, but it never came to that. He would not permit such humiliation and Sauron knew it.  
So, now, before he returned to the Black Land, he would be Elgalad's silent guardian, ensuring he reached the wood-Elves unharmed.

He should have brought the child north long before. He had been a fool. It was his weakness; his love for his mother's kin. Morgoth and Sauron had seen it, showed him the captured thralls who labored in the mines and forges of Angband to demonstrate that they could be ruined and broken. His first friend had been a Noldo. Morgoth had raped him to death; he had died in Vanimórë's arms in the thrall vaults.

_Everything...they will take from me, everything..._

But for a time he had savored the realization of a dream. Elgalad did not know what he was, he saw only some-one who cared for him and protected him. From the first there had been absolute trust in those great grey eyes and it had been impossible for Vanimórë to destroy that faith.  
No-one had ever viewed him at him as did Elgalad. It was dangerously disarming. He knew that the child's affection was founded on dependence, and had tried to break that bond. Surely once the Elf was among his own kin the emotional ties would fray and snap.

Vanimórë was not Sauron, nor Nazgûl. Few even knew of his existence and those who did, such as Glorfindel, believed him a corrupted Elf. He should have told Elgalad everything.

_ I told him enough, showed him enough._ It shook him to realize he had not told the Elf for the same reason as he had not told Fëapolda, in Angband. He did not want to see the revulsion in his eyes.

Vanimórë knew Mortals, he did not know Elves. The longest he had ever been close to them was as a prisoner of the Last Alliance, and he had never mingled with them, and he was not as they, not even the Kinslayers; he was a slave, a being forged out of pain and hate. He did not comprehend Elgalad's love. He believed that eventually the young Elf's feelings for him would fade, for what was there to love?

***

Elgalad peeped through the trees at a river whose music he could hear as a lower tune among the leaves. He had veered eastward days before to avoid a ridge of pine covered hills on the horizon.

He had lived much of his short life with the snow capped ranges of the south ever in view and he loved the play of light and cloud and sun across their eternal snow-fields but these low, hunched mountains caused a prickle of fear to run over his skin. It was not the pine which cloaked them, for he loved resinous scent of evergreen trees. The hills felt dark to him in the same way as the twisted forest around Dol Guldur had felt shadowed.

He did not know that once Silvan Elves had dwelt about these mountains, which they called the Emyn Duir, but as the Shadow began to spread across the Great Wood they had withdrawn from them. Now evil things, such as the great spiders made them their abode, and the Wood-Elves gave the hills another name, _Emyn-na-Fuin,_ the Mountains of Mirkwood.

His Lord had told Elgalad never to underestimate danger and had given him training in weapons from a young age, but the Elf knew he was but a novice. He had longed to become as his mentor, fight with him side by side, even go to war.

_''War, is not glorious, child,'' _ Vanimórë had said dryly. _''Elves are superb warriors but Men and Elves all look much alike when you have trodden through enough of their brains and entrails, seen their limbs severed from their bodies and crows feasting on their eyes. Do not be so eager to taste that. Thou wilt be a warrior, but do not run to meet war. It is work that I have to do at times. Never get exhilarated by the thought of battle. That has been the undoing of more than one mighty warrior. And when thou art young, there is no shame in avoiding it."_

Elgalad remembered those words, as he recalled and savored every word his Lord had spoken.

Anor, at the mid-point of the sky, bathed the swift river to the east. Referring to a mental map, the young Elf believed this must be the Celduin, the River Running, as Men called it. It rose under Erebor far in the north and formed the western border of Rhovannion, running south and east until it reached the Sea of Rhun into which it emptied its waters. Here it ran very close to the eaves of the forest and there was more woodland beyond it.

Nostalgia deluged him like a summer cloudburst as he remembered his lord catching fish with his hands. Something squeezed in his gut; a strange, restless ache.

He listened as his far sighted eyes scanned the land, before he jumped from the branch making two somersaults in mid-air before his feet noiselessly touched the ground. ~

~~~


	34. Nothing Must Harm Him

 

~ ''_****_ !'' Elgalad exclaimed, using a word which would certainly have earned him a reprimand had his lord heard him. It was a rather earthy Westron curse.  
''_The language of the Elves is beautiful,_'' Vanimórë had said. ''_But to curse in, the tongues of Men are more satisfying._''

The fish slipped through his hands for the third time. The sunlight on the water dazzled in his eyes as he sighed, tempted to wade from the river and hunt for grouse or waterfowl. But he could almost hear his lord's voice in his mind, counseling patience and perseverance. He straightened a moment, looking around, then closed his eyes and bent forward again. _Be still, still as a stone, or a tree..._

The laughing water danced in his ears, swirled past him...running water...the Running River. The sound of water was music to him, gave him as much peace as the whisper of wind in the leaves. Only the sea-sound set an odd restlessness in his soul. But his lord had explained that.

''It is said that the sea calls to all Elves, sooner or later, Meluion. Once Aman lay within the Circles of the World. Now, only the Elves can sail there. Valinor is the only place where the growing years can be lived with peace, without weariness of the spirit. So it is said.''  
Elgalad had heard the press of dryness into the last word, but had not understood it.  
_"Will we go there?"_ he had asked, but there had come no answer, just a thoughtful look from the violet eyes, a smile which warmed him like a fire on a frosty night. He had forgotten the question as he nestled close.

Through his meditative state, Elgalad felt the almost imperceptible tension in the water between his hands, and without thinking, he scooped out the fish, tossing it onto the bank. Sitting down he felt, for a moment, a small sense of triumph, although his thoughts slipped back to his lord almost at once.

In Dol Guldur, where darkness and evil flowed around him and seemed not to touch, he had said he would not be accepted in Valinor. Elgalad cleaned the fish, spit it to cook, then wiped his blade.

''If Valinor w-will not accept thee, then I d-do not wish to go th-there,'' he announced to the air. ''Thou h-hast set me f-free but I am still thine.''

The fish was good, its flesh white and flaky, hot in the mouth. He tossed the bones into the water, buried the fire under earth, and bathed in the river under rich evening light. He laid his soft leather clothes to air and sat, allowing the late sun to dry him. A blackbird called close by, and remembering his vulnerability, Elgalad dressed quickly. He buckled his sword belt and arrow quiver, picked up his bow and ran to the closest trees, one jump, an easy pull up and he was gone into the whispering leaves.

Since the Battle of the Camp, when the Wainriders and Variags of Khand made alliance, Rhovannion had been left a relatively peaceful land. Men settled both west and east of the forest; indeed the great indentation in the east of Mirkwood called the East Bight was a direct result of the felling of the trees by northmen. Elgalad had occasionally seen the smoke rising from behind wooden stockades, but never approached. Further north yet, under Erebor, dwarves driven from Khazad-dûm had founded the kingdom of Erebor. Men were also moving there, drawn by the promise of trade, and building a town which they named Dale.  
But if Vanimórë had known any of these things he had not spoken of them. He wanted Elgalad to find his kin and dwell with them. There was no reason for him to enter places of Men or Dwarves, except in times of need.

Elgalad listened intently, for the bird-call had made him wary, but no voice, hoofbeats or creak of wheels disturbed the long golden evening. Doubtless the bird was merely going to it's roost.

***

As he traveled, Vanimórë considered his overdue punishment. He would not be killed, he knew that by now. He was not irreplaceable, but nearly so. At the very least, it would take a long time to train and mold some-one as he had been. Not that Sauron need concern himself with time, but there were others factors at work: namely the pleasure Sauron took in him. Vanimórë knew he was useful, but he believed that Sauron would not kill him ultimately because he enjoyed possessing him too much, enjoyed too, the hatred and disgust it evoked.

_I made thee so beautiful,_ he had said long ago, in that tent on the eastern steppes.

Vanimórë wondered for the first few days if he were a coward not to turn back to Mordor now. It would do no harm for Elgalad to be alone, to depend on himself, to know fear. Hells, he _needed _ to fear. But evil things did not dwell only around Dol Guldur, they were scattered through the forest, and Vanimórë was going to ensure that nothing touched Elgalad. If there was any deeper prompting, it would remain unprobed, just as he did not seek to see into Elgalad's soul, because the depth of love there appalled him. He was too young, too innocent, too dear to be left alone. He would make a superb warrior when properly trained, with reflexes swift as a snake on hot steel, but he was not trained yet.

_Damnation ! I should have taken him to the Havens. I found Edhellond; I have been in Eriador. I know where Mithlond must be. And I did not. Idiot. Selfish idiot !_

Whatever Vanimórë might think of the Valar, Elgalad, innocent and vulnerable, belonged in Valinor. At least it was safe.

_And I would never see him again..._

~~~

In Mordor, Sauron smiled, cold as black iron. How amusing to see his son placed in such a situation: guardian to a beautiful young Elf. Sauron considered Vanimórë his, and Vanimórë felt exactly the same for Elgalad.

_ Thou art more like me than thou doth realize._

The truth was that even though Sauron could invade his mind and discover everything of his thoughts, Vanimórë was too strong to underestimate. Unleashing pain on him only hardened him, humiliation could not shatter him. But now there was something, _some-one,_ that might break him.  
_Would_ it break him?, Sauron wondered. Would this be the snapping point? A damn waste if it was, but the test must be made. It would be well nigh impossible to winkle Elgalad from the safety of an Elf Kingdom, of course, but Elgalad might not need to be so extracted; after all, he had followed Vanimórë straight into southern Mirkwood.


	35. He Walked Alone And Sorrowing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this and using the Lay of Leithien - which I have not copied in full due to copyright laws, and have altered to fit the situation - I listened to [](http:)Beren and Lúthien, sung and played by Colin Rudd . He is a highly talented and really lovely man,

  
~ The breeze dropped, evening spread its thick gold mantle across the river; warm scents distilled from the grass, and birds sang themselves home to roost.

Elgalad walked to the edge of the outlying woodland to see the first stars break open overhead as the night drew in. He imagined he could hear their high music, feel, their light sinking into his skin.  
He raised his head, his voice soft, but clear as a silver bell:  
''_The leaves were long, the grass was green, The hemlock-umbels tall and fair,_''

His heart almost stopped beating as, after a moment, a voice came through the darkness, a rich, lilting voice, worn to purity by pain and endurance:  
''_ He came there from the southern lands,  
And lost he wandered under leaves,  
And where the Running River rolled,  
He walked alone and sorrowing..._''

Elgalad's heart soared to touch the stars.

''_Enchantment sped my eager feet,  
When in the night his voice I heard..._''

No shadow moved, no leaf whispered; the rising moon cast silver over the land.

''_He heard there then the flying sound,  
Of feet as light as summer leaves..._''

Elgalad's feet seemed indeed to hardly touch the ground, as he ran, his hair a pale flame under the trees.

''_My winter passed, my spirit danced,  
His song released the joyous spring.._''

_Where art thou my dear lord? _

_....Meluion! Meluion!  
I called him by his Elvish name;  
And there he halted listening..._

  
Beyond the Celduin the trees were less thick, opening to glades where dim flowers of purple and white nestled in the grass. Elgalad paused in command of the verse as the moon, huge and candle-colored etched the second singer out of the dimness. Then he moved again, reaching out a hand, as if to touch something that would vanish like a dream.

''_And as I looked into his eyes  
Within the shadows of his hair..._''

Vanimórë's face was shaped stone in the moonlight, the hard lines delineated by its radiance. He drew Elgalad into his embrace, locked his arms, and Elgalad pressed his brow into the curve of the strong throat, felt the steady heartbeat of his world. Declaiming, almost challenging, but very quietly, he ended the song.

There was a great silence. Somewhere across the Celduin, came the lovely call of a nightingale.

''Our life is no lay, child,'' Vanimórë said, breaking the magic.

''W-what?'' Elgalad raised his head.

''We are hardly Beren and Lúthien.'' Wryness tinged the words. "No songs will be sung of us." As Vanimórë stood back and unhooked a wineskin from his shoulder, he had no presentiment, only regret.

''But m-my lord...'' Elgalad felt as if the earth shifted under his feet. All he had wanted was to be held close until the moon set and another rode the skies. Until then. Until forever. Vanimórë's voice had woven a spell of hope and trust, and then smashed it as if it were cat-ice.

''Why.. why art thou h-here, then?''

''I wanted to make certain of thy safety. I have been following thee.'' The wine was uncorked; a rich, heady scent arose. ''Here, drink.''

Elgalad took it. The wine ran down his throat like potent silk.  
''Thou didst f-follow me.'' His eyes shone in the moonlight. A smile trembled on his mouth.

''Yes,'' Vanimórë admitted. ''And thou hast done well. The worst of this journey is now over. We come to parts where thy kin dwell.''

''But all that t-time...'' Elgalad could not believe that his lord had been so close and yet not made himself known. ''I have n-needed thee.''

''_No._'' The word whipped back at him. ''Thou hast not, but I needed to be sure. I will see thee the last leagues and then this ends.''  
The lovely face looked bruised, and Vanimórë loathed himself.  
''And do not look at me like that. Hells! I should drag thee west to the Havens and set thee on a ship to Aman.''

''I will n-not leave for Aman, unless with thee,'' Elgalad cried.

Vanimórë shook his head. ''They would not receive me in Aman. I made my choice. And that is my final word.''

''Well it is n-not _my_ final w-word! '' Elgalad flared.

''Give me the wine, Meluion. Now.''

The wineskin was thrust at him with a suggestion of sulkiness.

''My thanks, a shame to waste it. I did leave a deer in payment for it.''

Elgalad was jerked to his feet. He tried to find purchase on the grass as he was propelled backwards and slammed against a tree trunk. His breath left him in a rush and pain flickered over his face.  
''Listen well, young one: I will save thee from death at Sauron's hands. I will also save thee from myself. No matter how much I might wish to keep thee with me, there is no place, no time and no future for thee with me. I cannot...afford thee Meluion.'' He released his grasp and Elgalad sank down among the tree-roots.

''I _h-hate thee !_'' he cried passionately.

''I hope so,'' Vanimórë unstoppered the wine again, his lashes shielding his eyes. When they rose they gleamed eerily in the night. ''That is precisely what I want thee to do.'' ~

~~~


	36. A Gift Of Love

  


 ~ Elgalad bowed his head against his knees, trembling. After a moment he opened his eyes, saw the fire blurred by his tears into a dancing red-gold wash.  


  
_ Hate him...I wish I could. I hate Sauron ! And my Lord will go back to that...? _

''Hast thou remembered what this day is?'' Vanimórë asked, as if nothing had happened.

''What d-day?'' Elgalad shook his head, his tone subdued. ''N-no.''

''It is thy begetting day. Come, drink. Come.'' His voice compelled, steel showing through the silk. Reflexively Elgalad rose and crossed the grass to the fire. Vanimórë drew a leather covered cup from his pack and poured wine.

''An adult now. The time for sulking is over. Drink.'' He proferred the goblet.

Elgalad stared into the wine. It wavered blackly with the tremor of his hand. Had he always imagined the warmth in his Lord's tone? Now it was as if a cold stranger addressed him.

''Thou shouldst h-have left m-me in Edhellond,'' he whispered.

''I have killed Elves in battle Elgalad." That brought up the fair head. "Each time I slew, a light was extinguished in the world. In _ my _ world. I have those deaths on my soul. I could not have left thee to die.''

''So I w-was saved because of th-thy guilt?" Elgalad asked, marveling at his misunderstanding. "And I l-loved thee and I thought...'' He tipped back the cup and drank, almost choking, the wine warmed his stomach, rose to his head.

''I have told thee, I wanted...'' Vanimórë pressed his fingers to his eyelids. "I wanted some-one of my own. And I am permitted nothing." The flames rippled across his face. "Meluion, listen to me. Thou hast only ever known me, been dependent on me. That is not love, child. I do not merit what thou hast given me.''

''D-didst thou only pretend to c-care for me?" The question was timorous; he dreaded the answer. "Thou art worthy of m-my love, l-lord, even if thou h-hast never truly loved m-me."

Vanimórë's eyes, catching firelight like a night creature's for a moment, burned red.  
''Dost thou understand _anything_ of what I showed thee?''

''I...yes...'' A flush mantled the pale cheeks. ''I...''

''Then understand this - what _I_ want does not matter. He would take and destroy anything I loved." Vanimórë uncoiled, stood over Elgalad like a warrior surveying a disarmed enemy. "And even were I free, I am not virtuous, Elgalad. I have done things thou might call evil, and the Valar certainly would, and I _ reveled _ in them! Thou art not safe with me !"

Elgalad set the cup down, cast himself at Vanimórë's feet, his face upturned. "Thou didst save an Elf once, from..._ him?_"

The brief laugh was humorless. "I doubt the Elf would view it as such. I did the only thing I could do. And I relished it."

Elgalad had no idea what he meant, but his eyes gleamed in the westering moon, cheeks flushed by emotion and the strong wine.  
''Perhaps the Valar gave me to th-thee as a gift for that act of m-mercy? Thou didst w-want some-one to be thine! I _am_ thine! What am I, who am I, if not thine?"

"A gift from the Valar?" Vanimórë laughed again, a sound so mocking that it drove the color from Elgalad's cheeks. "Now _that_ is amusing, my dearest gift. Thou canst not understand."

"I understand that I l-love thee!"

"And I think that Dorwinion is far too strong for thee," Vanimórë said dryly. "Let it give thee pleasant dreams. Go to sleep, Elgalad."

"I d-do not want to sleep!I _l-love thee!_ I was _b-born_ for thee!"

"Thy parents both died to give me, the Slave of Sauron, a gift? And one I could not keep." The violet eyes narrowed, not seeing Elgalad, but something far back in time. "Perhaps...And I _cannot_ keep thee." Within himself he groaned and said, more gently: "Rest."

"Thou wilt leave me if I sleep!" Elgalad's face shook and he rose, gathering a pathetic, valiant dignity about himself.

''Not this night," Vanimórë wanted to take that beautiful face in his hands and kiss away the tears, the grief – and the innocence, because he could not touch Elgalad like that and not desire more.  
"I have promised to take thee the rest of this journey." He sat down and patted the grass. "Come," he said. "Come, my dear."

Elgalad did not move for a moment, his eyes doubtful, questioning. Then he dropped down and nestled against the hard chest, his arms slipped about his lord as they had so many times before. Vanimórë felt him trembling and smoothed the gleaming hair.  
"Hush, rest."

_This is the bitterest jest and if it is of the Valars making..! _ His lips tightened, but his fingers continued their gentle caresses until he felt the hitching breaths gradually calm. He lay back cradling Elgalad, watching the stars garland the trees.  
_ I cannot think, I will not think...so warm and lithe in my arms. So trusting. _  
It was too tragic an irony for even he to find a grim humor in.

_Elgalad Meluion, my gift of love; the only thing I can give thee in return for that love is freedom from me._... ~


	37. A Prince's Debt

  
~   
~ Elgalad roused, blinking from sleep. He heard he singing of the river not far away, the whisper of leaves, smelled the sour-sweet bruising of grass under his cheek. For a moment he lay content, until remembrance of the night before drove him to his feet. He pushed back the hair which veiled his eyes:  
" My Lord? "  
_He said he would not leave me...! _

''Nor have I.'' Vanimórë's voice sounded behind him. He was tending the fire. ''The sun rises. I will hunt. Gather some cresses from the river."  
He rose as he spoke, picking up the bow, and jogged away.

From the east, the sun flushed color across the land, and the river's music seemed more joyful as first rays touched it. Elgalad bathed his face and gathered a handful of greenstuff from the bank, the sparkles flared against his unseeing eyes as his fingers clenched about the plants.

_What place will I have among the wood-Elves? He raised me. I have never known any-one else. _

  
It did not take long for Vanimórë to bring down a hare, loping out to eat under the early sun. Methodically he gutted it, let the river carry away the skin and offal and laved his hands of blood. As it cooked, he waded into the river to bathe, rubbing water-mint over his flesh.  
Elgalad's eyes rose from the fire to the tall figure in the water. It swirled about the narrow hips, the current dragging the long hair free of his back. The tattoos came to a point above his buttocks, spread up to his shoulders and down his arms, precise as if slashed by a blade. Elgalad had seen them before, but as Vanimórë leaned forward gathering wet masses of hair in both hands, a marking was uncovered on the base of his spine. It rose from the water, glaring, a red eye which seemed to stare, unwinking and baleful, at Elgalad.

He froze. The orcs of Dol Guldur had worn that insignia, but this, stamped upon the white flesh, seemed to proclaim ownership.  
Vanimórë tossed the wet mane back from his face, scattering water, and turned. His head tilted. He said: "It is. It is exactly that." As Elgalad continued to stare at him, he strode from the river and then Elgalad did look away, a flush rising on his cheeks. Strange fear and thrill melded as he saw the hard, dark erection, and his throat closed, his heart jolting painfully.

''I do not know much about the Elves of the Great Wood,'' Vanimórë reached for his gear. ''They have been here a long time. The King is of Iathrim blood. His father, Oropher led many of their people to the the Last Alliance and was killed there. A great many died on Dagorlad, and since then, the Shadow has fallen on the forest.'' He regarded Elgalad's bent head.  
''But they are of your kindred. They will not turn thee away.''

''What do I t-tell them?'' Elgalad murmured. ''That I was raised b-by... some-one who is a...slave to Sauron? Will they accept m-me then? '' he demanded, eyes flashing as he looked up. ''When I s-say to them t-that thou art my lord, and that I do n-not care who or wh-what thou art?''

''If thou art wise thou wilt not say that.'' The answer was steely. ''Tell them I am _ Golodh_ if thou wilt, and that when thy parents perished in the Great Storm, I brought thee north. It is no lie.''

"They w-will ask why I was l-left, why thou d-didst not present me t-to their king!" Elgalad rose.

''No, they have no love for the _ Golodhrim,_'' Vanimórë said. ''They do not forget Doriath, I was told. It will go better for thee if I do not enter Mirkwood."

"If I t-tell them the t-truth about th-thee," Elgalad challenged. "would they d-deny me?''

''Do not even think it,'' Vanimore's fingers closed about the white throat in a serpent-swift move. "I snapped my sister's neck to save her from Morgoth. Do not think I would not kill thee to save thee from the death Sauron would give thee."

For a heartbeat the pressure tightened. The long lashes dropped as if Elgalad waited to die. Then the hand loosed, and he whispered, swallowing hard: "Why art thou s-so cruel?''

''I am trying to save thy life, fool child!'' Violet eyes nailed lucent grey like arrowheads. "Listen to me, Meluion.'' He caught Elgalad by the shoulders. "This is important." He shook his head. "Ah, Hells. Listen !"

"I am l-listening, my l-lord."

''I said I know almost nothing of the Silvan Elves and that is true. I have never been in their realm, but I was close to it, long ago. I was tracking a band of orcs. They use the venom of the great spiders to coat their blades before battle." His fingers tightened again, but this time gently. ''I found the orcs with an unconscious Elf whom had been stung. The poison was already working, but he would have regained consciousness eventually – in the orc hold." He let those words penetrate and went on: "He was younger than thee and looked...very like thee. I killed the orcs, tended his wound and considered taking him with me into the south. It was after the Last Alliance, and Sauron was diminished for a long time. I did not. He would have hated me, and rightly."  
There was a flash of jealousy in Elgalad's eyes. Vanimórë smiled tightly.  
''I took him to a safe place where he would be found by his people. On his clothes there was stitched a small insignia. I had seen it before, on the hard Battle Plain, before the Morannon. The youngster was of the blood royal, a son of the king, I would guess. Thou wilt doubtless be taken before Thranduil and perhaps the son I saved. So tell them. It is time for me to call in the debt."

" My L-lord...I do not wish to l-live without thee." the whisper was almost inaudible.

"What dost thou _want_ of me?" Vanimórë demanded, and suddenly jerked Elgalad against him. He was still iron-hard with arousal. "_This?_ The Valar punish _this_, my sweet one. Strange no? If I raped thee and thy soul came to Mandos, he would have pity on thee. If thou wert willing, he would punish thee."  
_ One who has done nothing but love! _

"I d-do not believe thee." The lovely face was rosy with startled heat, the astonishment of his own abrupt hardening.

"Oh, _believe_ me, Meluion. And so, even were I not owned by Sauron, I would not take thee. I cannot. Hells, I _cannot!_" He drew away and said curtly: "Come. We have some way to go." ~  


 


	38. Let This Not Be Forever

  
~ Vanimórë took a burnt twig from the fire. He smoothed a hand over a patch of soft clay then traced a pattern in the earth.  
''The insignia of the House of Oropher.'' He allowed Elgalad to memorize it for a moment and then rubbed it away with one foot, glancing around the clearing to ensure that no sign was left of their passing.  
''Come.''

As the days and nights passed, despair settled more heavily upon Elgalad. His lord said little and what he did say was brief and to the point. When the nights were clear, the Sickle wheeled and Eärendil shone with blue-white glory.  
On the seventh night when the star was especially bright, Vanimórë unbent and they shared a goblet of the rich wine. He told Elgalad of how he had felt when he had first seen that star which the Elves named _Gil Estel._ He had seen Morgoth wearing the Iron Crown graced by all three of the jewels, and in the deeps of Angband they had blazed as if in challenge to the one who stole them.

_ He saw the Silmarilli. _  
Elgalad was struck by a sense of his Lord's age, his long, dark life.

"It rose in the west, where Aman lay," Vanimórë murmured. "I hoped it was a sign from the Valar, that they had not utterly forgotten Middle-earth." A bitter smile stirred his mouth. He had been so young, had not known what Ages of slavery lay before him, and had still hoped for freedom.

_For thee, there is no freedom._  
Sauron's words echoed down the black years.

_ How could I have thought I knew him? _ Elgalad watched the flames trace the the remote face, wondering what thoughts caused that expression.  
_ But how can any-one know another save by what they witness? _  
He had witnessed care, and what he had believed was... love.

***

The marge of the forest sang with a wind from Rhovannion which gathered heat from the sun-warmed land over which it passed. It was strong, kiln-dry, casting their hair forward in a flurry of black and silver. ''Here,'' Vanimórë said. ''it feels...I can sense them.''

_So can I,_ thought Elgalad, but he said nothing as he watched the parting and rejoining of a thousand, thousand leaves, as if one everlasting wave broke against the wall of the Great Wood.

''So, go.''

Elgalad's chest swelled and tightened. He could not draw breath, his eyes heavy with unshed tears.

''My l-lord, let this n-not be the end,'' he pleaded.

''All things end, Meluion,'' the glittering eyes were opaque. ''Even Arda, so it is said. Come,'' he grasped Elgalad's arm and walked toward the tree-line. ''Remember, speak to the king, or the prince if thou canst.''

''_P-please..!_'' Elgalad could not prevent himself being propelled forward. Leaf shadows patterned over him as they came under the first boughs. Vanimórë drew him to a halt and turned him.

"Thou cast begin a new life, child. Even were everything different, I could not keep thee with me."  
_ I would smother that innocence, mold thee into nothing more than a slave to my desires. And Hells, I do have desires._

"I do n-not want a l-life without thee !"

"One day thou wilt realize this was a gift, Meluion. It is the only one I can give thee." He drew a finger over the high-molded cheek and a wave of emotion swept across Elgalad's face.  
"Freedom...thou canst not know how great a gift it is! Take it.

''I only w-want to be w-with thee,'' Elgalad whispered brokenly.

''I know.'' With poignant, surprising gentleness, Vanimórë's lips touched his brow.

''I would d-do _anything _for t-thee!'' The grey eyes closed. He pressed closer.

''My dear, thou wouldst die. Go, if thou doth truly love me, go. I will think of thee here and safe with thy kin and that will comfort me. Swear to me thou wilt not follow me. I need to know thou art beyond Sauron's reach."

Sauron watched, gauged, and slammed his will into his Vanimórë. Who was so close to breaking...

"Go !" It came as a groan. Images of lust hammered into him. He watched himself as from a distance, take Elgalad's legs out from under him, cover him with his greater weight, rip down his breeches and savagely thrust into the tight heat of the body. He heard the cries, felt the tear of the muscle...

"My L-lord..?"

Vanimórë's eyes opened, perspiration pearling on his forehead.  
"If I shout in Black Speech, and remain here, I will be met with an hundred unseen arrows. And thou wilt see me die." His voice resounded in Elgalad's mind, honed to the timbre of command.  
_ Go!_

He was running, splashes of gilt-gold and emerald dashing across him, seeing the graceful, pale boles of beeches whip past. The forest floor laid with the dark copper leaves of countless autumns, but his feet made no sound as he wove in and out of the trunks.

He did not know when at last he halted, feeling the deep quiet of the woods embrace him. Somewhere a bird piped and above, the ceaseless wind brushed the canopy. The air resonated with a wild perfume, a presence of earthy enchantment. It touched him like a lover's hand on the heart, ran up his skin and Elgalad absorbed it, reaching out to caress the smooth bark of a beech. Then anguish clenched like a fist in his heart and he sank to his knees.

_My Lord! Let this not be forever! Not forever! Notforeverforeverforever..._

The cry came into Vanimórë mind as he loped south. His face hardened, and he closed himself off from hearing or sensing anything more.

_It must be forever, Meluion. Until the sky breaks and the mountains fall into the Great Sea and the End cometh, there is no world for us. _ ~


	39. Elgalad Meluion

 

  
**Elgalad Meluion**

  
~ He took to the trees again, and even as he leaped from bough to bough his soul ran back, his mind repeating: _ please, please, please!_ At times he halted but he did not turn; perhaps it was pride or shock or the resolve that comes with despair. Elgalad ran on.

He might have believed that this part of the forest was as unpeopled as the rest, save that he could sense his kindred – there was a wild, green lightness in the atmosphere which was unlike anything he had known before. It allowed him to push the dreadful memories of Dol Guldur into the back of his mind.

It was a sound which first alerted him to the presence of the wood-Elves: a horn, clear and distant, echoing through the woods. He stopped, balanced on a branch, listening. The trees were all beech here and it was not so dark. A fresh green light allowed him to see ahead and bronze leaves lay thick on the forest floor. He might have been in some lofty hall.

The horn sounded again, closer, and as he watched a white stag with antlers proud as a crown bounded into view and leapt away. The hunt followed soon after; Elves on horseback lead by two with golden hair which streamed behind them. They were clad in leaf green and chestnut brown, and by the similarity of their faces Elgalad guessed they were either brothers or father and son. They passed close by the tree where he stood and something in him reached out with yearning, to be part of them, part of the forest. He turned to follow their progress and found himself staring at the point of an arrow.

Two men were standing on the branches of the tree, dark haired and bright eyed, bows steady in their hands.

"Move to the ground," one of them said crisply.

Elgalad let himself drop. The two men closed in, and one of them made a sound like a bird's whistle, summoning others who seemed to flow from leaf and tree-stem, silent as mist. The one who had spoken took his knife and bow, glancing at it curiously.

"From whence do you come?" he asked.

"My n-name is Elgalad..." he said respectfully. "I c-came...was guided h-here..from Edhellond. There is... was an Elf h-haven there. All are gone n-now."

"Edhellond?" The other's brows drew together. "You are very young, who brought you here?"

A blush began to burn in Elgalad's cheeks and the warrior saw it.  
" My lo...my guardian l-lead me north. He told m-me I am of the Sindar...and th-that perhaps thou w-wouldst accept m-me into thy realm?''

"That is for the King to decide." The warrior gestured with his head. "We will take you to the halls. Where is your guardian?"

"He left m-me at the edge of the forest." At the deepening frown, he said unwillingly: "He was _Golodh._ He said he would n-not be welcome here."

The Elf's face hardened. "He was right," he said. "Come."

***

Malthador's eyes fixed upon the strange Elf as they walked. He was young, perhaps he had not even reached manhood, and his manner was diffident and courteous, yet the warrior felt an odd antipathy. Perhaps it was his speech; such an antique and perfect Sindarin that Malthador wondered if it was spoken as a subtle insult to the Silvan tongue of Mirkwood. Equally, it might have been the stranger's height and graceful carriage which reminded him of Thranduil and Legolas who carried Sindarin blood and were both tall. Malthador longed to question him, but that would exceed his duties. He found himself gazing at the sway of the silvery hair which reached almost to the knees, thick as the tail of a horse. It had been drawn back in three braids, denoting – what? Rank, high blood? Malthador curbed the heat which began to pump blood to his groin and walked on.

***

Elgalad was lead to guest rooms, given food and fresh clothes while he waited for the King to return. His door was guarded, but he was too deep in thought to wonder at it.  
He had never been in such a place. The halls were delved into the side of a hill, but the walls were hung with tapestries depicting the birds and flowers of the forest, and lit by torchiéres, and he did not feel enclosed. The room he was lead to had no windows, but air shafts were cut in the walls and the hangings were bright, an interwoven design of beach leaves, so skillfully sewn that that he felt he might be looking into the woods. The candles were scented and braziers burned sweet smoke. In a bathing room, water poured in through the wall and out again; it was warm, having been heated before it emptied into the stone tub.

His heart beat swift and light through him as he washed, combed his wet hair, bound it back and dressed into new clothes of green and brown. Wine, fruit and cold meat had been left for him and he drank, recognizing the taste. His lord had given him wine like this: Dorwinion. He sipped warily, for it was rich as ripe plums and he did not want it to go to his head. Setting it aside, he closed his eyes, seeing violet ones glittering in firelight. A sob rose in his throat and he swallowed it as the door opened, rose quickly to his feet.

He recognized the Elf who entered from the hunt. He was tall and his wheaten fell past his waist, intricate plaits drawing it back above the high cheekbones. His clothes were richer than the warrior's who had brought Elgalad here; soft doeskin and fine-woven cloth, and on the high collar about his neck were sewn stars of beech leaves.

"Elgalad of Edhellond?" The man asked, his voice soft and musical. "Welcome to the Halls of Thranduil. My name is Legolas Thranduilion."

Elgalad bowed and raised his eyes to the clear blue ones.  
"Yes, m-my lord," he murmured. "I know." The dark brows lifted in surprise.  
"How do you know me?"

"I do n-not, but my...guardian wh-who lead me here h-has seen thee, l-long ago. Unless thou hast brothers. He d-drew the design of th-the Royal House t-to show me."

The Prince's hand rose to his collar.  
"If he knows me, why did he not remain to speak with me after bringing you all this way? It is true that many here have no love for the _Golodhrim._ Malthador said that your guide was of that kindred. Did you know that my grandsire brought survivors of Doriath here?"

Elgalad nodded. "My guardian t-told me of the ruin of D-Doriath, lord, yes; the attack b-by the Sons of Fëanor."

"Is he a Kinslayer, Elgalad?" Legolas asked directly and saw the color deepen.

"I..truly do n-not know. He l-looks _Golodh._" A long breath. "But I do n-not even know h-his name. He told me very little. But h-he was here once, and he found th-thee – was it? – poisoned by spiders. H-he tended the w-wound, bound it with silk..."

Legolas stared at the younger Elf. "Yes," he murmured. "Yes. It was I. Your guardian saved my life."

***

Legolas let the silence grow as he stared at the youth. He remembered that day long ago, because were it not for the intervention of some-one, he would have died badly. The orcs would have raped him and feasted on his flesh. But memory offered only glimpses through the agony of the poison: a rich voice, surprisingly gentle hands, eyes like purple gems. Such strange eyes, Legolas had thought it must be a dream.

"I do not remember much, I was sick with venom, but some-one carried me to a place of safety. I heard him speak...Yes, when I woke, I had been tended, the healers found traces of some strange potion which had negated the spider venom. He saved my life and I could never thank him." The Prince reached forward and touched Elgalad's arm. "How old are you?" he asked gently.

"I h-have just past my fiftieth b-begetting day, lord."

"Call me Legolas," the Prince smiled. "So young. How is it that you have no family?"

The long lashes flicked up.  
"He told m-me that my parents d-died. There was a g-great storm."

Legolas calculated in his mind. "Yes, it came from the north and brought down many trees. So your guardian looked after you and brought you here?"

"Yes. He said h-he hoped that thou wouldst remember he had aided thee, and perhaps take m-me in?" The words lifted on a shy query and Legolas drew him closer.

"We would need _no_ reason to take you in Elgalad," he said. "I wish I could have seen your guardian. Come now to my father. In his name I welcome you to the kingdom."

The kindness in his voice brought a lump to Elgalad's throat. He grasped at it and held it, a small comfort against the desperate ache of separation.

"I thank thee," he whispered.

"You miss him," Legolas stated, and at the nod, the one tear which traced a path down Elgalad's cheek, he enclosed him in a strong embrace. "I am sorry. I will look after you." ~

~~~


	40. Under Green Leaves And Shadowed Halls

 

  
**Under Green Leaves and Shadowed Halls.**

  
E   
Elgalad's acceptance into the Woodland Realm was not as difficult as he had feared. This was due, in large part, to Legolas, and the story which was half-truth, but not an outright lie: that a _Golodh_ had raised him and lead him to the forest. He had not entered, since the King had no love for that kindred.

"Who or what his guide is will not be held against him," Thranduil had declared to his counselors after spending some time with the newcomer. So young, so uncertain and so wounded; it was clear to see he deeply missed his guardian.

"He saved my life, father. I would have liked to have thanked him."

"I know," Thranduil had put an arm about his son's straight shoulders. "I would have thanked him myself for that. You are sure it was he?"

"After speaking more with Elgalad I am certain. His eyes...I thought I was sick with venom. This color," he touched a stone on the wide silver arm-band his father wore. "Strange, but Elgalad confirms it."

"He must have been a Kinslayer," the king guessed. "Some lone exile perhaps."

***

Elgalad was fascinated by the dolven halls, their woven hangings and lamps, by the gates which closed or opened by the use of subtle magic. He was a little overwhelmed by it all, both entranced by, and at first shy of, the fair beings whom moved among the forest, as one with it as the leaves of the trees.

The first thing he had realized that was his accent was strange, as was his use of Sindarin. Tutored by his lord, it was very pure, ancient form of the tongue, and since Vanimórë had not lived among Elves, it was not subject to the word-changes that occurred over the years. It was as if, Thranduil told his son, Elgalad had learned it from old scrolls. It was perfectly understandable, but antique.

"The last time I heard it was in Doriath, " he remarked.

It was said that the purest and most beautiful Sindarin had been spoken in Doriath and at times the King would speak to Elgalad in the old way. There was both sorrow and pleasure in this, for its formal elegance brought back many vivid memories. On his part, Elgalad learned the Silvan dialect, wanting to find his place here, yet never truly succeeding. His heart reached out to wherever his lord had gone. There was no calm, strong voice in his mind now, and he was terrified that this meant that the one he loved was dead. He could only insist to himself that his soul would have _known._ But he loved the forest. Leaf and bough were in his blood, and he felt it like a lover's arms around him. Perhaps the beauty was even enhanced by the dangers of the great spiders, by what he had seen in Dol Guldur. And that was something he had not spoken of to any-one. He did not wish to dwell on it, and it would birth too many questions which he could not – would not – answer: how had his guardian escaped from bonds, orcs, and one of the Úlairi? Why they had been near that cursed place? He wanted to forget it, and the green-gold of the light through the beeches, the darker emerald shadows, the scents of fern, cool water, moss and leaf, wove a spell around him. Had his lord been here, he would have been utterly content.  
And he would not have been afraid of Malthador.

Initially, he had been grateful for the warrior's friendliness to him, until one day Malthador had made an advance at which Elgalad had shied like a startled deer. The lieutenant's attitude had changed instantly. He became colder, at times scornful. Elgalad said nothing to Legolas or Thranduil, for he did not wish to appear weak, and he was still uncertain of his position, so he avoided the other man as much as he could. Legolas had taken up his training, and he was eager to learn.

But nothing could banish his memories.

Elgalad came to understand that he had been supposed to fear his Lord, yet nothing he had done had so much as smudged his love. He would have wanted to be with him, even had his guardianship been a hard one. He was horrified by the images he had been forced to see, knowing he would die from such torment, but somehow – and he knew this was foolish – he believed that with his Lord, he would always be safe.  
As the years passed, he did realize that his love had been born out of dependence and isolation, but it did not make it any the less real. And he did not understand what he had truly wanted from the relationship until some years later. He only knew that his heart had been captured from the moment of his birth, held by violet eyes that would never let it go.

***

Dark years...

Vanimórë tried to forget Elgalad, but the young Elf had worn into his heart, and the love the child should have been able to show his mother and father had had no other outlet but himself. In nurturing the babe, the child, the young man with kindness, he became Elgalad's world. And was it not what he had wanted? he asked himself wearily. He had survived by being ice and steel, but Elgalad did not know that. He only saw a man who who fed him, cleaned him, wrapped him in furred cloaks at night, who tutored him. His trust had been absolute. Vanimórë likened it to some warrior-king walking through the streets of a conquered city, coming upon a toddling child who knew nothing of rank or power, but would look up and smile, then be knocked aside by a mailed hand.

Sauron thought him a fool. He did not consider the fact that his son had been a child in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, in Angband, half starved, forced to watch torture, earning kicks and blows, terrified by the screams which echoed up from the depths of the fortress. Vanimórë had been afraid of everything: the orcs, the Balrog's, Sauron most of all, and later, Morgoth himself. He had held his sister as she trembled, trying to be strong for her. He had known nothing, understood nothing, yet was somehow certain in his soul this was not all there was, not with the ghosts of beauty hidden by the dank grime which his fingers uncovered.  
No, he could not have harmed the beautiful child given into his care. When Elgalad looked at him with shining eyes, when he blossomed and blushed at a smile, a touch, Vanimórë felt some long-bleeding wound within him spread with sweet honey. Sauron, despising this weakness in his finest tool, would urge him to rip that innocence from the child, and Vanimórë would beat him back in mind-struggles that left him aching with pain. After, he would turn back to accept with bewilderment the love given to him without reservation.

Because he needed to be loved.~

 

  



	41. To Endure The Unendurable

~ ** One hundred and fifty years after Elgalad's arrival in Mirkwood.**

Esgaroth thrived in those days; furs and amber went south and wine, silks and spices came north up Celduin. Traders would go far to make a profit, and there was a great profit in the wine trade. The Silvan Elves of the Great Wood appreciated the opulent vintages of Dorwinion.

Since Vanimórë had first come here, one hundred and fifty years previously, the town had grown and prospered. Cloaked and hooded as a solitary hunter or trapper, only his height might be remarked on, if his face was hidden, but the northmen were likewise tall, and in the mercantile bustle of the streets, his unrelieved black did not stand out. His swords did; but hunters in the wilderness were never unarmed.

North of the Long Lake, beyond the Grey Mountains, was a desolate place known as the Withered Heath. The mountains themselves were the last remnants of the easternmost Ered Engrin, destroyed in the War of Wrath, so perhaps it was not surprising that relics of Morgoth's creatures and minions chose to inhabit them. It was known dragons dwelt there, and the creatures were not social animals. Unless constrained and ruled by one more mighty, they would fight to the death. Sauron believed there were only one or two left, and sent his son north to report back. This Vanimórë was bound to do, but he chose to return by a circuitous route which would lead him to Esgaroth.  
he revelled in his times out of Mordor and extended them for as long as possible.

His real reason in coming to Esgaroth did not devolve solely from defiance, however, and it troubled him. He lived only by the iron of his will; he could not afford a chink in his armor, but it he knew it was far too late to weld it shut, if it had ever been possible at all. In the great forest west of Esgaroth, dwelt the Elf he had raised from childhood.

  
_Fool, _ he thought as he had many times before. _They will take everything. I had to let him go. Sauron would have killed him to teach me I can love no-one, and I would gone mad, if I am not already mad. _

He could not afford to love

_I gave Elgalad the only gift I could._

Brutally honest, Vanimórë knew that he sought to love someone as he had loved Vanya. She too had looked on him with absolute trust, even to the moment he took her life.

He watched wine barrels bump one against the other, riding low in the water, heading for the lodges of the Elves on the banks of the Forest River from whence they would be poled into Mirkwood.

The noise receded behind him as he walked. A dragonfly skimmed past him and from further away came the poignant cry of a curlew. The sun was westering, turning the grasses the colour of honey. The breeze died. Evening came down with the slow northern beauty which made every twilight linger as if it were a lover reluctant to depart. Vanimórë sat down cross legged, cast back his hood, and watched the river glide past, singing a song of deep woods and peace. The tranquility was balm and he savored each moment, tamping down the memories so that they might be drawn out and dwelt upon through the unendurable times that must be endured.

**

"Thou knowest what is so delightful about thee, my son?"

Vanimórë swore at him.

"Each time, thou art as enraged as the first."

His wrists, waist and ankles were manacled to the stone table over which he was bent. Damp hair veiled his face, allowing him an illusion of privacy as Sauron drove into him. Inches below his eyes, the polished black basalt reflected his white face.

''This is how thou wouldst have used that Elf in the end.''

_ No ! _ The mental answer was adamantine as the rock. _Never. _

The pain speared him like a knife of acid. Blood from his bitten tongue was copper-and-salt in his mouth. He made no sound at all, but his breath shuddered into his lungs as Sauron withdrew, seized a great sheaf of hair and jerked his head up. Burning eyes stared unwinkingly back at him, pupils dilated with agony and hate; and Vanimórë spat blood into his face.

Behind him lurked two black Uruks of Mordor, hulking creatures with porcine faces, and mouths crowded with carious teeth. Sauron raised his free hand and delicately wiped his face.

''Thou dost wish to taste him, I know," he smiled. "Then take him. Enjoy him."  
His will bore down more heavily upon Vanimórë, feeling the horror which exploded through his mind. Powerful muscles swelled, wrenching against a steel alloy forged by the power and skill of a Maia of Aulë.

_I will kill them ! I will rip out their damned hearts !_

_I know. But not until thou art recovered. And thou doth bring it all upon thyself, after all. _

The larger Uruk thrust forward, saliva running in thin ropes from its teeth. Clawed hands gripped the slender hips, nails broke through Vanimórë's flesh. Its erection was hard and huge as it slammed into him.  
_No! No, no, no !_ Vanimórë arched like a drawn bow, his head flung back, hands straining against the black stone. _No! I will kill them, I will..._

An eternity later, he lay motionless, scarlet sliding down his thighs in slow runnels. The only sound in the red-lit chamber was the heavy, sated breathing of the orcs, the only sounds in the aether were whimpers of despair.

***

Beside the river, in the old-gold sunlight, the son of Sauron opened his eyes. ~

~~~


	42. Twisted Images

  
~ Elgalad looked up from braiding three hairs into a string for his bow, and came to his feet as Legolas approached.  
  
"I am riding to Esgaroth today," the prince said. "To meet with the town's master. Would you like to come?"  
  
It was on the cusp between late spring and early summer, and at this time each year Legolas would go Esgaroth to speak with the master of tolls and trade. The meeting coincided with the first arrival of Dorwinion wine, some of which would be brought back for the king. Elgalad had never yet visited Esgaroth. He spent much of his time on patrol and had not long returned.  
He smiled over the shard of pain as he remembered the villages he had entered with his lord, strapped securely to the hard chest and keeping as _"quiet as a little mouse." _ He imagined he could smell the rich scent, feel the steady heartbeat.  
  
"I would like to," he said. "I thank th-thee."  
  
The little town bustled. Fishing boats bobbed out onto the deep water, the streets and market place were filled with voices bartering, greeting, squabbling. Despite the earthy wildness of the wood-Elves celebrations, Elgalad was a little overwhelmed. He was also quiet, since Malthador made one of the group, and in the Lieutenant's company he was always wary.  
  
"I will be finished at sunset," Legolas told them. "Elgalad, if you wish, take a ride around the lake."  
He laid a hand on the other's arm with a smile, before walking away with the councilor whom had accompanied him, wheaten head shining in the sun. He had been here many times, but he and the other Elves always drew the eye, and were frankly stared at by the gold-skinned traders up from the Land of Wines.  
  
Elgalad walked back through the streets, his cowl drawn over his head, pausing only when a man's voice called out from a stall where the last of the previous years apples were being sold. Every autumn, he and his Lord would pick apples. Sometimes, if they had honey they would core and roast them, or wrap wild boar meat around them. It made the meat sweet and tender.  
The stall-holder saw his hesitation and beamed.  
"Ah, master Elf, these apples have been well stored in sand. A little wrinkled, but the sweetest you will find in the town until harvest!"  
  
Elgalad smiled, drew out a coin, and took the withy bag of fruit. He walked on, crossing the bridge back to the shore, passing the buildings where men stored their tools or stabled draft-horses; some of the land was cultivated, and neat strips of vegetables showed green against tilled earth. Elgalad made his way toward the sound of the Forest river, hearing as he did at times a faint, sweet voice blending with the running waters.  
  
He half-dreamed in the serene warmth, pausing to glance north to where the Lonely Mountain dominated the skyline like an upthrust tooth. He opened the neck of the bag and drew out an apple; the skin gently frilled, the fruit still firm. As he raised it to bite, he stopped short.  
  
Further away on the bank of the river, a dark figure was sitting, black as night-shadow. Beyond him, the reeds and grasses of the Long Marshes rippled under the warm wind which gently died, leaving only the faintest susurrus of sound.  
  
Elgalad felt his soul enlarge, burst forth from his body in white heat. He could hear nothing but the roar of blood as it rushed over the pound of his heart. He felt himself drawn as if the river carried him, until he came up short against the slam of the amethyst eyes.  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
~ It was Vanimórë's habit to spend these times in near mediation. He cherished tranquility with the ardor of one who found it rarely, and savored it all the more. The rush and slide of the river as it debouched into the lake, the call of birds, the slowly diminishing hum of the town blended into what his soul knew as peace.  
  
He felt the sweet, hesitant presence like warmth, scented the cool perfume even before he opened his eyes. For a moment they stared blindly ahead, then he rose, shoulders braced as if to meet an enemy.  
  
He turned.  
  
He should have returned to Mordor as he was ordered, but he had come here, close to Mirkwood. He could have reached out and touched Elgalad's mind from anywhere, but he had severed the bonds between them. Yet he had still come, perhaps thinking he might overhear the raft-Elves speaking of him.  
  
What roll of the bones had brought them together so quickly? He did not believe in coincidence. Quirking an inner eyebrow at the Valar he had insulted and rejected, his mouth compressed.  
  
The years had brought Elgalad to the fullness of his height and beauty, broadened the shoulders and lengthened the long legs. His warrior training showed in the play of hard muscles as he walked. The haunting, high boned face was firmer now, finally annealed into adulthood, but the expression had not changed, nor had the inherent sweetness of the firm mouth, the huge grey eyes that stared up into his.  
  
"_My Lord._" He flung himself against the strong chest, clung like a limpet to a rock, whispering into the black hair. "I w-was so afraid for thee."  
  
Vanimórë held him, smelling the scent of hawthorn after rain. He closed his eyes as Elgalad pressed against him, his mind spilling thoughts in a cloudburst.  
_ I thought thee dead, I could not hear thee. Why didst thou never reach out to me? I thought I would surely know if thou wert dead, but... _  
  
The brutal black iron of his slavery receded for a moment. Elgalad's love poured over him in a profligate wave, and Vanimórë uttered a groan of anger. He stepped back. The face tilted up to his was radiant.  
  
"Hast thou l-left...him?" Elgalad whispered.  
  
"I cannot leave him," he said more harshly than he intended. "I was in the north. I am returning to Mordor."  
  
He watched the light fade from the beautiful countenance, and he hated himself, hated more the betraying stir in his loins.  
  
The grey eyes lowered. "I...forgive m-me... I thought..."  
  
He was trying so hard, thought Vanimórë, and with endearing courage, to recover himself. He said, to give him back something: "I wanted to see thee, to know that thou wert happy."  
  
Elgalad looked up again. "I c-cannot be truly happy w-without _thee_," he said and, as if to appease, held out the apple. "I was thinking of th-thee when I bought these. I have never been to Esgaroth b-before and I thought that...I prayed to the Valar thou wouldst come here."  
He offered the fruit like a child.  
_ Do not leave me, I need thee, I will not let thee go again, I will follow..._  
Desperation howled in his mind and found an answer in Vanimórë's. He snatched the fruit from Elgalad's hand and tossed it into the air. There was a shirr, a blur of silver and the apple fell, cut cleanly in half. The blade was back in its housing even as the pieces fell to the grass. He jerked Elgalad against him, and kissed him like a man starving. And he was.   
  
And Sauron sprang.  
  
Images exploded through Vanimórë's mind. He saw Elgalad writhing in helpless pain as he ravaged him, plunging deep into his hot tightness, heard him scream as his muscle was scoured until blood ran. He watched himself thrust a sword into that ruined opening, raping with steel, as Elgalad's mindless agonies slammed against dark walls, felt himself burst in dreadful release again and again...until the death rattle sounded, and what had once been fair and beautiful lay blooded and still, broken in body, betrayed in spirit.  
  
_ **No.**_  
  
Braced taut against what would come, his voice cracked into command.  
  
''Go. Run.''  
  
Fear burned into Elgalad's face.  
"N-no."  
  
"_Go now or he will make me rape thee to death!_" The violet eyes detonated into blood red. Vanimórë threw back his head and screamed in furious denial, in overwhelming agony.  
  
_If thou lovest me, run. I will find thee one day, I swear it, but now, go._  
  
"For me. Please."  
  
His mind shattered; he struck his hands against his head and fell to his knees.  
  
_No. No. NO._  
  
Elgalad ran, and the land blurred into a mist of silver. ~  
  
  
  
~~~


	43. Innocence Should Be Cherished

  
~ Elgalad almost ran straight into the oak tree. He came up short, pressed himself to the warm, rough bark and closed his eyes. As if from a distance he heard his own gulping breaths.

He had seen his Lord fight, seen him break fetters of steel, explode into violence, slay armed orcs with savage and contemptuous ease, face even that empty, terrible Nazgûl. He had never felt that violence turned upon himself, and after a kiss. Such a kiss ! He touched his mouth and turned, eyes searching the hazed, golden distances as he blinked to clear the tears.

He had stared down the length of a nocked bow as his lord swore that this death would be better than the one Sauron would give him...and still he had followed him, trusting him, drawn by love.

_He was told to hurt me...he warned me of that, and if he resisted then the Dark Lord would punish him. He resisted for fifty years, he resisted just now..._

He imagined Mordor: the very air heavy with centuries of power and death. In Dol Guldur he had woken in the arms of some-one who negated darkness, some-one he trusted implicitly. Some-one he loved.

_ ''I will not let him have thee...I have never been anything but a slave...I will save thee from death at Sauron's hands...I cannot – afford thee...'' _

A moan escaped his lips.

_ Oh, my lord... **My lord!** _

  
***

  
A rough, youthful voice was speaking worriedly. ''Lord?'' it was saying. ''Sir?''

Vanimórë smelled oxen, heard the clank of bells, opened his eyes as red-black light exploded through his skull in one last warning and waited.

''Are you hurt Sir?'' A hand reached out to him, and he said curtly:  
''Do not touch me.''

The hand withdrew. Vanimórë came to his feet, seeing the river running gold under the sun. Around him long-coated black cattle were grazing. Their herder was a young man in cross-gartered leggings, and sheepskin tunic. He watched warily through a fringe of blond hair, the first stubble of his manhood years showing on his chin and cheeks.

"I am well, I thank thee."

Vanimórë picked up his pack and walked passed him, drawing his cowl over his head, gauging the sun, and how much time had passed since he fell unconscious.

Almost a league away he heard the bustle of Esgaroth, and the lake waters were a deep, tranquil blue as they stretched northwards to where Erebor dominated the skyline. He knelt and cupped water, splashed it over his face and drank.

_Elgalad..._

A high, cold anger burned through him. It seemed to cool him, soothe his pain. After such an assault it felt as if his very bones had been set alight with black fire, his body stretched upon a rack. A throbbing agony pulsed through each sinew and he could only wait to subside.

Deliberately, he did not seek out Elgalad's mind; it was better so, he told himself.  
_ I will never do that, I will never be forced into that! I should not have got so close to him!_

That kiss! Honey and fire and such _giving._

He walked faster, lengthening the distance between himself and the town until after a long glance around, he stripped, waded into the lake and swam out.  
The visions made him feel rank with disgust; only suicide would wash it away, and if he thought there would be peace after, even absolute dissolution, he would not have hesitated. But Morgoth had promised him an eternity of torment.

The lake floor was smooth with rounded pebbles, he dived to the bottom, came up scrubbing his scalp, and strode to the bank surveying his surroundings again. Pulling the wet mass of hair over one shoulder, he unstoppered the wineskin of Red Harvest. It warmed him as it hit his stomach, and for a moment he relaxed, before drawing a wooden comb through his hair, binding it back, then pulling on his clothes. As he stamped into his boots, his eyes turned westward, to the line of the forest. He clenched his hands together, hiding their tremors even from himself.

_ Meluion, thou art safe at least...from him, from me. _

Shouldering his pack, he walked on.

_ Fear me, better that than love._

_ Thou doth truly think he loves thee?_ Sauron mocked. _ All he knew was thee. Coward and fool, thou wouldst have enjoyed him ! _

_Thou didst fail, lord. So sorry. I would never have hurt Elgalad. I have never taken my pleasures that way. I never will._

_And thou wilt never understand how innocence should be cherished..._~

~~~


	44. The Seed Of Suspicion

  
~ Malthador, who had observed Elgalad's meeting with the tall stranger and subsequent flight, followed him silently and curiously back toward the forest.  
_"I want you to watch him," _ Legolas had said. _ "He has never been out of the kingdom before. Do not disturb him, just watch him." _

Malthador had not been pleased at this request, but had followed orders, and what he had seen made certain things very clear to his mind – or so he thought. When he saw that Elgalad was at the borders, he turned with a curse to track the black-haired man. He found no trace, but he did see a youth minding a small herd of cattle, who could only stammer incoherent answers to the questions and watch as what he said sent the Elf running with unbelievable grace and speed along the lake shore.

Malthador paused at last, face grim, hearing only the tap-tap of a moorhen in a bed of reeds. The water lay windless, motionless, in the late afternoon.

"Looking for some-one?" The voice came from behind him, and even as his reflexes spurred him to instant movement, he felt air hiss past his ears, the touch of cold metal at his throat as two blades crossed there.

"Be still. I do not wish to kill thee, but I will not be followed. If that means hurting thee a little, I will do it. Now, lay down the bow."

There was something chilling in the voice; it spoke as one who commanded obedience, and received it without question. It was not an Elven accent, but the words were beautiful, lore-perfect Sindarin. Elgalad spoke in the same antique manner.  
The blades pressed infinitesimally and Malthador felt the thin, warm trickle of blood. His fingers released the grip on the bow and he saw a black booted foot hook delicately under the yew-wood and toss it further away. One blade withdrew, leaving the other, as his knife and arrows were methodically removed. Then his legs were taken out from under him in one practiced move and he fell to the shingle. His arms were drawn back and rope jerked around his wrists, passed down to his ankles and twined around them.  
"I am sure some-one will find thee soon."

Cursing, chagrined and furious, Malthador twisted, the rope did not cut off his circulation, but certainly rendered him immobile.

"What did you do to Elgalad?" he spat.  
He felt something brush his cheek, hands turned him on his side and a slippery spill of hair cascaded over his face. A pair of unnatural purple eyes under long lashes met his like a blow.

_Golodh._ There was no doubt; black hair, white skin, and those eyes. The Kinslayers who had slain their own kin in the First Age had such fiery eyes, so tales said.

"I did nothing. Just as I did _ nothing _ to thee," the words were icy. Then the boots went out of his vision and he heard nothing but the whisper of a breeze in the reeds.

~~~

Neither Elgalad or Malthador were to be found when Legolas finished his amicable meeting with the Master. The streets were quieter, for it was the supper hour, and the Elves quickly left the town, walking to the outbuildings where their horses were kept.

"Have you seen Elgalad or Malthador?" Legolas asked as they mounted. The warrior who had been with the horses shook his head.  
"Not since they left, my lord." At Legolas' lifted brow, he continued. "I saw Elgalad walking along the river, Malthador followed after. I have not seen either since."

Both had doubtless returned home. There was no reason to think otherwise, and the Elves rode north, skirting the marshes, enjoying the scented, lingering dusk.

The gates to the Halls were open, for there would be a feast that night, with the new Dorwinion gracing the Kings silver mazer. It was only as the wild woodland music wove about him that Legolas realized that Elgalad was not there. He had not seen him in the halls, and he was not out on patrol this night. Malthador was not present either. Leaving his place, Legolas wound through the throng, seeing neither of those he sought and returned to the halls. They were were empty but for the servants who lightly passed in and out of the gates with platters and flagons.

The door to Elgalad's room was closed and Legolas knocked lightly. Even at feast, the younger man would rarely sing or dance, and would often vanish to the tall trees but never would he be entirely absent. There was no sound from within, but when the prince turned the handle, he found the door barred from the inside. He frowned and called his friend's name.

***

Elgalad had shut himself away as soon as he returned. The wine he had drunk had eased his shivering a little, but not assuaged the anguish.

_Go now or he will make me rape thee to death! _

There had been a glimpse of something within his lord, yet beyond him, something cruel as unending winter, promising only pain and despair.

_ If thou lovest me, run ! I will find thee one day, I swear it, but now, go ! _

He had fled, spurred by terror and something even more powerful: his lord had _begged_ him.

He had sank down on his bed and wept, but it had not been for himself.

The quiet rap on the door brought his head up from where it rested against his knees. He hesitated then came to his feet, pushing back his hopelessly disordered hair, the braids unraveled by emotion. His eyes were dry now, but the skin of his face felt tight from the salty flood of tears. Slowly, he cracked open the door. His candles had long guttered out, but the torchlight from the corridor mercilessly bathed his face, and he blinked.

Before he could speak, Legolas pushed the door wider.

"What is it?" The question was sharp. Legolas' hands clasped the taut shoulders and held him, his eyes scanning Elgalad for any sign of harm. "What happened?" He saw the convulsive swallow. "Was it in Esgaroth? Did some-one hurt you?" He doubted that; the inherent sweetness of Elgalad's expression drew the eyes away from his height and strength. He could hold his own in a fight. Perhaps one of those who came with the traders, drawn by the silvery beauty, might have importuned him?  
"Was it a Man? Elgalad, we have to know! If a visitor to Esgaroth, or one of its citizens has tried to touch any of our people my father has to be aware."

"It was n-no Man!" Elgalad shook his head, misery turning down the full mouth. "It was...my lo...my g-guardian."

"He was _in Esgaroth?_ What did he do to you?"

"N-nothing! He t-told me he could n-not be with me, to leave h-him!" His breath heaved and Legolas drew him close, feeling the tremoring of the muscles.

"You thought he came to see you?" he asked gently. "Did he not? Why else would he be here?"

Elgalad's cheek was hot against his own. "I d-do not know."  
_"I was in the north. I am returning to Mordor..._

He could not say that, just as he had never told any-one here of Dol Guldur, and never so much as hinted at his lord's service to Sauron.

"He t-told me to leave h-him. He sent m-me away."

Legolas drew back. "You love him so much," he stated.

"Yes." It was a challenge. "I l-love him." The grey eyes were bright and wounded.

"I am sorry," Legolas murmured. "But if his life is that of a wanderer, with all the dangers that entails then he was right to bring you to your people." He frowned. "Did Malthador see him?"

Surprise broke through the melancholy on Elgalad's face. "M-Malthador?"

"I asked him to watch you, to make sure you were all right. You have not seen him since you returned?"

Elgalad's froze. He looked afraid now and Legolas said sharply: "Your guardian saved me long ago, he would not hurt Malthador – would he?"

_No...not unless Malthador got in his way. Not unless the Dark Lord forced him..._

And he remembered, with a shiver, the violet eyes exploding into blood-red.

***

It did not take the Elves long to find Malthador once they came to the lake shore. Elgalad lead them to where he had seen Vanimórë, and one group headed south while Legolas, Elgalad and three others went north. The night was bright, a half-moon sailing serenely. They discovered Malthador trussed as neatly as a fowl by some-one who knew how to tie knots so expertly that his struggles had only tightened them. He was furious and embarrassed, and as he rubbed blood back into his cramped legs, he glared mutely at Elgalad.

"He did not hurt you?" Legolas questioned.

"No, my lord," Malthador answered angrily. "He disarmed me and tied me. He was a damned _Golodh._"

"Here is thy b-bow and quiver, sir." Elgalad offered them and they were snatched from his hands.

"Did he say anything to you?" Legolas asked. "This is important, Lieutenant. Look at me. What did he say?"

"Nothing, only that he would not be followed, and would hurt me if necessary." Fastening his harness, Malthador went on: "What is this cursed _ Golodh _ doing so close to our realm?"

"No doubt if he was in this region, he came here to get word of Elgalad," Legolas answered coolly. "He is gone now and he did not hurt you."

"We should track him, my lord."

"Why? It is not a crime for him to be here. He did not try to enter the realm, and all that has suffered is your pride." Legolas jerked his head. "Come. You may make a report for the King, but the matter is over." He scanned the night and looked back at Elgalad who shone pale as Tilion, his eyes, in the dimness, empty with bereavement.  
"Come," he said again softly, and after a moment Elgalad loosed a breath and walked beside him in silence.

Thinking of Elgalad's headlong rush into the _Golodh's_ arms, the ravenous kiss he had seen, then the equally frantic flight away, Malthador set his jaw.

_It is not over for me, Elgalad. There are too many unanswered questions here. And I know now why you refused my company – for a bloody handed Golodh._ ~  



	45. Dark Autumn

  
~ ''Elgalad !''

Elgalad was returning from a patrol which had kept him out for the past three nights, and it was now dusk, the shadows under the trees black as the sun westered beyond the Hithaeglir.  
There was to be a feast in the woods in a few days time, and although Elgalad did not need the company of others, he reveled in the music, when he felt the ancient wildness and joy of his kin permeate the forest.

The voice brought him out of his thoughts with an abruptness which spun him to his right as Malthador dropped down from a branch overhead, booted feet noiselessly touching the dead leaves.

''Sir.'' Elgalad bowed. ''Is there s-some way I m-may serve thee?''  
He knew he was blushing, but determinedly stood his ground. Since _that_ day Malthador had regarded him with silent speculation, and had occasionally referred to it, leaving delicate half-questions hanging in the air which elicited no response. Elgalad had also seen the curious glances cast at him by some of the other warriors, but no-one had said anything. He suspected Legolas had quashed that.

Surprising him, Malthador only said: ''I am glad I met you. I would have come to you later, had I not seen you.'' His tone was easy. ''Has Legolas spoken to you about your further training?''

''Further training?'' Elgalad repeated. ''No sir, I thought...I t-train always, as all our w-warriors do...Prince Legolas t-taught me well. I am m-most grateful.''

''Yes, indeed he has and you are highly honored,'' Malthador's mile was tight. ''The Great Wood is proud of it's warriors, and rightly. Let me explain.'' He laid a hand on Elgalad's arm and began to stroll forward.

Wary now, Elgalad perforce went with him. Malthador was greatly respected; he had earned it, but since Elgalad has spurned his advances, there had been no friendship between them.

''There comes a time when each the younger warriors must decide if they wish to progress further, perhaps to be considered as a lieutenant, as I, or a captain,'' He saw the puzzlement in the grey eyes and continued. ''We love it our home, we _ are _ Lasgalen but we know also its dangers. Our warriors patrol each day, slay the great spiders when we find them, even the cursed orcs and wolves, who sometimes come down from mountains. Our weapons are ever ready to protect our people, our warriors have to prove themselves worthy of that name, Elgalad. And you do wish to prove yourself do you not? To serve our king with honor and courage? Many think that you would prove an asset in a higher ranked position – if you are willing to undergo the harder trials.''

''I d-do serve Lasgalen,'' Elgalad declared. ''Of course I w-would prove myself !''  
A frisson of pleasure warmed him at the thought that other warriors believed he could take on greater responsibility. Was Legolas one of them? He hoped so.

''I thought that you would. Not all are considered, for it is hard, I will not deceive you. There will be hurts, and hardship, but no _true_ warrior will say a word in complaint. And none speak of it. They hold their heads up and close their mouths until the final trial, when they are accepted into our ranks. The choice is yours. It is not an order.''

''I w-wish to, sir!'' Elgalad exclaimed passionately. ''I can p-prove myself! I s-swear!''

''Well spoken.'' Malthador clapped him on the shoulder companionably. ''Then I will begin this night. At moonrise. Bring your weapons, and I will meet you.''

Elgalad bowed. ''Yes sir.''

Malthador melted away and swung up into the trees with a grim smile. Whomever Elgalad was, his coming had brought evil well-nigh into the kingdom. The king and Legolas had pitied this refugee from Edhellond – if Elgalad was in truth from there, but his guardian, the violet eyed _Golodh_ was perhaps lurking about the borders. It was Malthador's duty to find out all Elgalad knew about him. The thrice damned _Golodh !_ There were few left of the Kinslayers, but the Elves did not forget. Doriath too, had been a forest realm.

  
_We accepted him too easily, and he will say nothing of his lover. All are taken in by a fair face and spurious innocence. But evil can wear a fair face. Did not Gorthaur prove that in Ost-in-Edhil? Evil can wear an Elf's face, did not the kinslayers prove that? If Elgalad is not evil, he is at least he is connected with one who is. I will uncover this mystery. It is my duty._

  
***

  
It was Elgalad's custom in the evenings to sit in a high tree close to the halls. Many Elves were awake at night; they slept whenever they needed rest. Weariness could be mastered for days, and Elgalad felt no desire to seek dreams this night. Determined, excited, he checked his weapons and restrung his bow, thinking as he did so that surely his lord would be proud of him if he knew.  
_If_ he knew._If_ he lived. Surely he was alive! Elgalad's hands trembled, and he gripped the yew-wood hard. He had cried out again and again in his mind, and was crushed when no answer came back. _ He was punished..._

_ He will not kill me, I am too useful._

He bit his lip, tasting blood. _ Please be alive, dear lord, please._

***

The night was roughened by warm westerly wind. Rain had fallen earlier and now fresh scents drenched the air as Elgalad walked into the trees, enclosed by the song of the leaves over his head. He heard the low, tonal hoot of a little owl, and paused as Malthador approached.

''Come,'' the lieutenant said curtly and went up the tree faster than a cat. Elgalad followed, the wind foaming past him.

''To the river,'' Malthador commanded, and began to run through the branches. The moon showed white-gold between gaps in racing cloud and the rush of the Forest River sounded under the the surf of the leaves.

"Now,'' Malthador said. ''We begin.'' He turned, and Elgalad saw the hard set of his face. ''Warriors must fight not only with weapon and skill but with courage. They must fight in pain, with wounds and through fear. Can you do that, Elgalad? Can you fight not only as you are now, untouched and unharmed, but in pain?''

Elgalad thought of his Lord, of the horrific tortures and abuses he endured, and his mouth firmed. He nodded.  
''I c-can, sir. yes. I c-can.''

''We will see, for remember, no-one is born a warrior. I doubt even your _ Golodh_...guardian was."  
Malthador saw blankness glaze the fair features.  
''No doubt he has learned his...skills over a very long time.'' The words fell into a stubborn silence, but Malthador heard the indrawn breath. ''All do, who master such skills. Our Prince included. I think you would like to make he and the King proud?''

''Of course sir. How else c-could I ever show m-my gratitude for their k-kindness?''

"Then I know you will indeed make us all proud of thee. We all pass through this; every officer. But it is not for the faint-hearted, not for cowards, for such could not lead our patrols.''

Elgalad thought of Dol Guldur: the Nazgûl, the orcs. His throat dried.

_ I was terrified. My Lord was not. Could I face such things alone?..One day, he said. One day he will find me..._

Malthador's face misted before his eyes and the older man found his blood burning with anger and the old arousal woven with the desire to hurt.

_ He weeps like a child! A child with a Golodh lover! _  
He thought of the flood of blue-black hair gushing over him, the hard features dominated by unearthly eyes, the sense of a controlled and steely power.  
_ Did he plant Elgalad here, like some poisonous seed? Does he meet his lover secretly and tell him the secrets of our home; it's patrols, it's warriors? Lasgalen, Wood of the Green Leaves once you were, and now you are clouded by the Shadow. The Golodhrim have ever been another shadow, and Elgalad was sent here by one; a perfect spy..._

He said harshly: ''Take off your tunic.''

Elgalad's hands went to the straps which held his quiver and he paused, glancing at the river. Was he to swim?  
''Take off your tunic." At the hesitation Malthador snapped: "Am I not your superior? The first rule Elgalad, is obedience. In battle one does not question an order.''

''N-no, sir.'' He laid down his bow and arrow, loosed his sword belt and drew the tunic over his head, folding it neatly.

''Face the tree, spread your hands upon the trunk.''

A quiver of presentiment shook through Elgalad, but he turned, feeling the smooth bole under his fingers. He swallowed dryly, wondering what he would do if Malthador touched him, knowing he would not suffer it.

The lash caught him utterly by surprise, cracking across his flesh. A flame spread outward as the nerves blazed into shocked life. He cried out, pressing against the tree.

''Be silent ! A warrior does not show his pain as a child does !''  
A shocked sob was bitten back. Malthador saw the muscles of Elgalad's back tighten, watched the flesh grow dark stripes with satisfaction, thinking of the _Golodh._

_ Yes, evil can wear a fair face, Elgalad. Thine and his ! _  
He laid the stokes with calculation, waiting for the screams, and the nudge of arousal strained at his breeches.

The pain burned sickeningly through Elgalad, his back was awash with scalding burns. Held in place by agony and shock, the determination not to beg, he clenched his hands against the bark of the tree.

_Please stop! It hurts...!_

For a long moment did not realize the whipping had ended. There was silence, save for the wind, and his own harsh breathing. Tears had streaked his cheeks, sweat stung his back.

''Go and kneel in the river,'' Malthador ordered curtly. ''It will aid you.''

Elgalad's legs shook and each movement brought a fresh flare of pain, so that he gasped, almost falling into the water. The relief was blissful.

''And remember, you train tomorrow. You will show no pain, understand? The warriors will watch for it and know you lack courage. You will disappoint Legolas.''

Elgalad gathered his breath. ''I und-understand, sir.''

Malthador put out an arm and drew Elgalad from the water, watching it run silver over his tall body. The desire to ram himself into it was overwhelming; the need to punish Elgalad for his rejection even greater.  
''You will heal fast enough. The next few days may give you a...little discomfort, but that is the mark of a true warrior. To hide pain and to still fight. Remember that. Now go.''

Shakily, Elgalad gathered his long hair over one shoulder and nodded.

''No, your tunic goes on, warriors do not display their wounds. That is shameful.''

''Yes, sir. ' His features tightened as he tried to don the garment without abrading the wheals. He was very white after he had laced it at the throat.

''Now go home," Malthador ordered. "Return at moonrise tomorrow.''  
He saw the dread of pain flash in the great eyes, and inwardly smiled with anticipation.

_It will not take long to break him, find out all he knows, what that Golodh purposes. _  
He laid a hand on the other's shoulder, felt the flinch, heard the indrawn breath.  
''Every-one knows of this,'' he said kindly. ''You will only cause great chagrin to those whom would accept you, if you speak of it. It is not spoken of – ever.''

''I understand, sir.'' Elgalad bowed, braced against the rub of cloth on his back, then walked away, not daring to whimper, teeth clenched hard.

He did not go back to the halls. He slowly climbed a tree, found a wide branch and lay on his stomach. The rush of the wind drowned his weeping, and carried with it the sense of utter aloneness, of rejection. If he failed in this training, he would shame the only friends he had.

As soon as he moved in the grey dawn, he bit out a cry; the cuts had crusted over and now split. He felt as if he had been pummeled with mattocks, and limped to a small brook nearby where he bathed. How could he hide the pain and avoid humiliation, he wondered? Two helpless tears fell into the water and he despised himself as he scrubbed them away.

_My lord, I am not brave, help me. Lend me thy strength ! _  
He splashed his face and drank a little, then carefully settled his quiver on his back, flinching, and belted his sword.

_There is no pain. I will not bring shame upon those who have been kind to me. They believe in me._

Bracing himself, he breathed deeply and began walking. Legolas was to spend some time with him at the archery butts this morning and he must act as if nothing had happened, for the prince would surely be watching for any reaction.

_ I must prove I am worthy. I cannot let him down._ ~  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I have written here about one Elf treating another badly, before any reader says; '' Elves aren't like that. '' I will add this.  
> No Elf willingly served Evil:
> 
> War of the Jewels. P408 Quendi and Sindar, quote:  
> ''No Elf of any kind ever sided with Morgoth of free will, though under torture or the stress of great fear, or deluded by lies, they might obey his commands.''
> 
> This section is talking about the Avari, whom, apparently ''Often were hostile and even treacherous in their dealings with the Sindar and Noldor...They were, it seems filled with an inherited bitterness against he Eldar, whom they regarded as deserters of their kin, and in Beleriand this feeling was increased by envy (especially of the Amanyar- the Exiles) and by resentment of their lordliness.
> 
> The chapter mainly deals with dialects, but it is interesting, for it mentions such Elves as Eol, Maeglin and Saeros of Doriath. It's concerned mainly with First Age Elves, but I think it important by the very words used: Bitterness, hostility, treachery,envy, resentment.


	46. Testing Of Endurance

  
~ Elgalad possessed little confidence in himself and his martial abilities, for he had seen his lord fight. He did however, understand that only some-one who had lived Ages as a warrior could develop such skills. In Mirkwood, trained by Legolas, he compared himself to the prince.  
He had been eager to learn since his lord first began to teach him the rudiments of swordplay, and had applied himself with intense concentration to everything Legolas taught him. It was a way of trying to forget the separation from one who had become his world. He felt hollow, the raw wound of his abandonment would never skin over, but from the moment of stepping into the northern beech-woods of Lasgalen, he had felt a great love and oneness with it. When welcomed by the Prince, he determined to do everything in his power to be accepted – even loved.   
  
Of course the wood-Elves must undergo such training. Where they dwelt was clear of darkness, but they did not hide in the Halls; they ensured with their bows and weapons that their realm was kept clean. They fought for their home.  
  
Vanimórë had indeed known little of the Silvans' culture and customs, but he had spoken of some Mannish ones, and told of certain 'rites of passage' that youths had to pass through in order to be accounted grown men, earning the right to bear arms. It seemed reasonable that any Elf who wished to attain officer-rank should undergo similar rigors. Malthador was right of course, one was not born a warrior. Elgalad could scarcely comprehend how his lord had become what he was, the will-power and pride that kept the soul from disintegrating under abuse. His tortures had been far more brutal than a few stripes with a sword-belt.  
Shame made him blush as he felt the constant abrading of the tunic against his back.  
  
_This is nothing, all warriors must bear this! _   
  
He did not wish to see contempt on Legolas' face, or to be told he should lay down his arms and become a scribe or healer.   
  
_No ! I will do this. _  
  
He imagined his lord's expression, aloof, inquiring, almost heard the words:  
  
_Thou doth disappoint me, child._  
  
Tears scalded his eyes, not of pain, but of loneliness.   
  
_ If I cannot make the prince proud, and – even though he never knows of it – my lord, I can offer nothing to this kingdom, and I will leave. I will not shame Legolas, I will not shame my lord ! _  
  
He had believed himself of little use at first, how could it be otherwise, when he compared himself to his guardian? but had hoped that under Legolas' tutelage he had become fit to join the ranks of the warriors. And so it had been, or so he believed. He had been assigned to patrols and fought the great Spiders. So far, he had been lucky, escaping with only the smallest of wounds, but all who called themselves warrior must fight when injured, unto death if they were called on to do so, Malthador was right in that. His lord had told him the tales of Gondolin in the First Age, of the great _Golodhrim_ who had died in battle, and with such giants of valor held up before him, Elgalad was intimidated, but a grim determination took root in his heart. If others could succeed, surely he could?   
  
_I will not be shamed!_   
  
He thought quickly as he walked; Malthador had not said that he might not treat his wound, only not to show them, yet he was unsure if tending it might be seen as countermanding an order. He was uncertain if he could hide the pain from Legolas without treatment, and he had learned herb-lore from his lord. With a handful of dripping plants from the stream-side in his tunic breast, he slipped through the halls to his chamber and dropped the latch behind him.  
  
Even with Elven agility, he could hardly lay the plants on his own back but he did what he could, crushing them between his hands, allowing the soothing juices to run onto the backs of his fingers and smoothing it over the wheals. Carefully, he sheared one of the bedsheets to make bindings, and strapped his chest and torso, then donned a tunic. The other was marked with blood and he must discard or try to clean it himself. Replacing the harness hurt badly, but with the bindings under at least it would not chafe. And he would heal fast; there would be no scars to show.  
  
He combed his hair, braided it and poured from a flagon of wine, taking a deep drink. He was not hungry; more than anything he longed to lie on the bed and rest, but he breathed deeply, straightened his back and left the chamber.   
  
  
***  
  
Over the next weeks he seemed to live in constant pain, tiny lines of it were drawn under his eyes, and he willed himself not to show it. His skin became more translucent, and he rarely spoke.  
  
"He has been quiet since that incident with the _ Golodh,_" Malthador offered when Legolas questioned a group of warriors.  
  
"Yes," the Prince replied after a moment, for it was true. "Watch him, I do not wish him to flee the forest, only Eru knows where he would go."   
  
"He will not leave Mirkwood, my lord," the lieutenant promised.   
  
On the night of the feast Malthador told Elgalad to go and enjoy himself. He was, he had to admit, surprised by Elgalad's staunch courage, but sooner or later it would break, and he could be banished forever from Lasgalen.   
  
Settling the formal tunic carefully over his head, Elgalad girdled it, pinned his cloak and made his way to the great clearing where the main feast was held. He could already hear the singing, smell the wine, see the light of fires through the trees. But instead of the joy he usually felt, there was only a chasm of emptiness within him, as if wherever he went there would be nothing for him.  
  
Silently, he walked forward into the light, seeing no-one until his eyes found the king and Legolas speaking together. Their closeness exacerbated the emptiness within him that could only be filled by love and acceptance, and he hoped he would merit that through passing successfully through his training.   
  
_This is my home now. I must show I am of value._   
  
He was glad to be taken notice of by Malthador, because at least it indicated that the Prince, perhaps even Thranduil considered him ready to undergo this further training. He was deeply grateful for that for, he wanted desperately to belong.  
  
On some deep level, he was aware that he should not be so thankful for attention that he even felt pain was a – if not good thing – at least not a bad one. But what an Elf did could not be wrong. He had seen orcs, the black, cold Úlairi, knew what evil looked and felt like, and he had seen, through his lord's eyes what torture truly was. Compared to that Malthador was not cruel, he thought; he was stern, but fair. He was also respected, and had probably trained many warriors. Apparently Legolas had requested this of him, and had faith in him to bring Elgalad through his trial. If he had had the choice, Elgalad would have preferred the prince to train him, but as Malthador pointed out, Legolas had other duties.  
  
Elgalad would not have harbored any resentment had Legolas been his mentor, just as he would not if his lord had. He had faith that whatever either of them might do to him was for his own good, so he bore the pain, but could not help thinking that perhaps Malthador took a little pleasure in hurting him – and then he was ashamed of himself for harboring that suspicion.  
  
A server passed him wine and he garnered a nod from the Lieutenant which seemed to carry approval. Politely returning the bow, he hoped no discomfort showed on his face as he moved.   
  
"Elgalad?" He was started from his thoughts by Legolas, who laid a hand on his arm.   
"Come and sit with us," he smiled, leading him across to where Thranduil was seated, proud and beautiful, rich bronze leaves showing vividly against wheat gold hair.   
  
  
  
****  
  
  
  
Barad-dûr. Immense, implacable, wreathed in veils of shadow, towers climbing from battlemented walls, fuming smokes rising from vents. A place of dread in the minds of all sentient races of Middle earth.  
It was colossal, built to overpower and intimidate, the lines hard and angular, but its construction was skillful. Sauron knew how to build.  
Windowless dungeons were delved under it, and their walls bled despair and torment. Courts opened onto halls and stairs, all of the same adamantine stone. At the very topmost level was the Chamber of the Eye.  
  
Few had ever entered this room save the Nazgûl, the Mouth and the dark servants who waited on their Master.  
And Vanimórë.   
The Palantir was kept in this uppermost chamber, and this was truly the center of the Dark Lord's far-reaching Empire. He did not directly rule Rhun, the Harad or Khand, but those peoples worshiped him as they had Morgoth, from fear or because their hearts turned to the darkness and they relished the pleasures it brought them.  
  
What defines any place as evil? Nothing is created so, and no land, no plant, no natural animal is of itself so; they move to the rythyms of nature, which may seem cruel but are not wicked.  
Mordor had ever been an inimical land and Sauron had chosen it for both its active volcano and the mountain-fence. But the land, somber though it was, was natural until Sauron came there. Barad-dûr seemed to absorb Sauron's mind and become an outward manifestation of it, until few could look on it without their hearts faltering, even the orcs, who were spawned and lived in its shadow.  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
He danced, danced alone through shadow, through torchlight, painted and perfumed, gold braid winding through the long fall of hair, the reddish light staining his flesh the hue of blood.  
  
Lúthien had once danced before Melkor, and later, another offspring of a Maia and Elf had performed for him, inflaming him with the same lust.   
Melkor would watch Sauron's son, the power and grace of him, and swell in anticipation, then would jerk on the chain about Vanimórë's neck and pull him to his throne. Sometimes he would press a goblet of warm blood to the firm lips, push meat torn from a thrall into his mouth. Then his hands would tear the braid from all that lustrous hair, fingers clenching to drag back the over-proud face, and he would laugh like a dark falling of stones. And, as he laughed, he would force the Slave upon his swollen length, watching the pain flame into his eyes as Vanimórë's hands groped wildly for anything to hold.  
  
When Melkor was banished to the Void, Sauron had Vanimórë dance for him, desiring his son to know that however strong he became, whatever power he had, still he was a slave.  
  
_He cries for thee, canst thou hear him? _ His fingers locked hard on Vanimórë's hips. _Thy fair Elf. He screams for thee. One day, my beloved son, he will scream for **me**._   
  
_No! _   
  
Vanimórë felt Elgalad's soul. It was not power, or very little of it was, but a bond forged out of love, and the pain and desolation had pierced his barrier like a fire arrow, brought his head up from where he had been conferring with the Mouth. The other watched his reaction with dark, anticipatory amusement.  
  
_What harm comes to him? _  
His mind had flung itself outward, before Sauron's power blanketed it. And then he had been summoned.  
  
''He still lives, he will live, my son, unless fate decides otherwise, to writhe on me, as thou doth.'' The whisper fanned his ear and then Sauron's lust increased, and the chamber echoed with gasps and moans of pain and pleasure.  
  
Vanimórë breathed deeply, holding himself still as his father drew him forward in a parody of tenderness. Lips touched his temple and cheek, forced his mouth open.  
  
''My beautiful son...'' Fingers delved through the tousled hair, traced down his back. ''Thou wilt see him again – for a little while. Kiss me.''  
  
_ I will kill him! _   
  
Their lips battled, melted together.   
  
_ Before I let thee have him,_ Vanimórë vowed, _ I will kill him ! _ ~   
  
~~~

  


~~~  



	47. A Bitter Winter

~ Winter stripped bare the last leaves and brought snow like sea-foam to settle upon the north. Stillness lay over all and the Elves boots left no prints as they walked.

''You will sleep in the open, Elgalad.'' Malthador told him, crisp as the air. ''You will report to me each third dawn, do you understand?''

Sleeping in the open was not uncommon; many warriors did so, and in training it was quite usual. This area was but a league or so from the Halls and well within the areas kept clear of spiders by the patrols.  
''Report to me at the west archery range in the morning.''

Miserably Elgalad watched Malthador walk away, then looked up through the trees at the ice-blue stars, thinking of his lord.  
_ Thou wouldst make nothing of this. _

His back was stiff as he climbed into a tree and he gasped as the cold bark pressed his tunic against his skin. He was not bandaged now, for he had had no time, and it had become difficult in requesting linens and disposing of them. Malthador gave him bandages on occasion and he had seen that as a kindness, not realizing that this only occurred when the beatings broke the skin and blood might be remarked on if it stained his tunic.

Did the Host of Fingolfin complain, crossing the Helcaraxë? He thought back to the tales his lord had recounted to him, and when he had mentioned it to Legolas, the prince had said:  
"According to Glorfindel, they certainly did, and with reason."

Elgalad thought of clinging mists which penetrated all garments, a cold so intense that it numbed hands and feet  
Numb...

Abruptly he straightened. If his back was numb with cold surely he would not feel the lacerations so much? He had been concerned for some time now that his archery was affected by the beatings. Although he tried to ignore the pull of broken skin, his aim was no longer as true, his draw not so strong, and his usual fluidity had become clumsy. Malthador had chided him in private, saying that he must learn to rise above his wounds.  
Elgalad did not need reminding, and was not blind to the quizzical looks he received from others at the archery butts.

_I am a disgrace to them: Legolas..the king, my lord... _ Embarrassment burned hot on his cheeks as jumped down from the branch.

The sound of the Forest River was loud in the frost-locked night. Elgalad's eyes picked out the moonlit race of froth ahead of him, and he quickly stripped off his clothes, wading out into the water. Lowering himself to his knees he lifted his head with a long sigh. It felt wonderful. When he emerged into the deepening frost, he quickly drew on his clothes, strung his bow, fitted an arrow, and loosed.

_ It is easier. _

Even the housings on his back did not seem to hurt as much.

At first he concentrated on speed more than accuracy. His weariness had vanished with the chill, and and the night was old when he climbed the tree again to rest. He wished some-one had been able to see him for, unable to feel the wounds, his shots had been swift and on target.

He paid for it the next morning, as he had suspected he would. The wheals which had opened were stuck to his tunic, and at the archery range he was again stiff and clumsy, but he knew what to do now. Even if he could not shoot after the numbness had worn off, he could practice alone. Each night he repeated the process and then began to try without immersing himself, attempting to master the pain without aid. He had to. He could not fail in this, he could not shame Legolas, or those other warriors who presumably had faith in him.

Those were lonely, painful weeks. Elgalad withdrew further into himself, and his thoughts strayed back to the golden, peaceful years with his lord

At last winter began to withdraw and the Stirring of the year approached. There was no longer anything cold enough to numb Elgalad's back, but he knew by now that he shot better if he were not overwatched, and he asked if he might continue to remain outside. Malthador seemed surprised, but was agreeable, and so Elgalad continued to practice.

_Steady, breathe in, breathe out, loose in the shots between breaths, be still..._  
He recalled Legolas' words to him.

_ "You remind me of myself sometimes," _ the prince had said not long after Elgalad had first come to Mirkwood. _ "Father says you look like me. It is true." _

For a long moment Elgalad had said nothing, then murmured almost inaudibly: "My g-guardian said t-that, too; that we looked alike." And then, with downcast eyes and rising blush, "He th-thought of taking th-thee south with h-him, to wh-where he l-lived then."

Legolas' "What?" had brought his eyes up again.

"He said thou w-wouldst have hated him and t-tried to escape,th-that the south was no p-place for thee."

"No place for you either, Elgalad," Legolas said gently after a startled moment, and Elgalad had bent his head, still feeling the compassionate eyes on him, knowing that Legolas understood.

***

Early spring brought snowdrops and windflowers to mist the ground under the budding trees. Crystal rills of water slid along mossy banks where hearts-tongue fern grew, and birds were busy in every branch. It was a season of rebirth, and with it came also an emergence of the spiders, who grew sluggish in the winter, but now began to move from their colonies to hunt.

Elgalad had not questioned being out alone in the winter. It was close to the halls, and he knew the signs and sounds of the creatures well enough. Beyond, warriors were continually moving through the forest, and had there been any alarm, he would have been called in.

This night, the stars seemed to shake, clinging to the branches, and a mild wind soughed through them, reminding Elgalad of his very young days by the ocean. He drifted into sleep, seeing the swell of the sea, hearing the gulls calling...then he snapped awake, certain he head heard movement in the trees. It was not a fox, badger, deer or any other night-haunting denizen of the forest, and was too noisy to be roosting birds. Silently he rose to his feet, tilting his head. Again, he heard a crackling in the branches, and he judged, from three different directions.

Not Elves. Elves made no noise in trees. He could think of only one creature that might be in the boughs, and the thought chilled him. He had never met one when alone, only with a group of experienced warriors.

He had already buckled his harness on, reached back for an arrow without realizing. His heart was pounding heavily, and his breathing had become fast and swift.

_ Eru help me, I do not wish to die this way ! _

Spiders stung, then dragged their prey back to cocoon them in webs, sucking the still-living creature dry. The venom dissolved all within the body to be drawn out as juices on which the creatures lived. Dread locked Elgalad's muscles and he tried to force it down, knowing if he froze he would become helpless.

A branch creaked almost overhead, and he sensed the tree itself reject the spider's presence. Unthinkingly, he drew back the string, fired at the noise and heard a shriek. A branch cracked, and something heavy landed with a thud on the forest floor. Elgalad spun, ran along the branch and somersaulted out into the air. It was instinctive; spiders jumped, and one had been right above him. Reaching the next tree he was up it in a heartbeat as behind him he heard a hiss, the creak of boughs. Something sprang, he felt it reach the tree and leaped again, pausing only to cast a swift glance around.

There were evidently several of he creatures. He could hear them, see their bulks, and strange, jerking leaps. The moonlight was shining with a misty luminosity on something which he realized must be webbing spun to stop his escape. All around him the things massed, and the stench almost suffocated him. He whirled on the branch, his knife flashing, almost crying out when a beak lunged for him. The knife sank deep into flesh and there was a scream, the sound of falling.  
Something struck him punishingly in the back, and he unbalanced and fell, tucking his legs under him. Landing, he rolled and came up, something clashed harshly close to his head and ducking, he punched upward with the dagger. The sharp blade went in to the hilt.  
Ichor hissed and bubbled out over his hand, burned his flesh like scalding water and he flipped backward, falling into a battle-stance while every instinct shouted at him to flee. His peripheral vision caught movement, and he saw a many legged shape rear back over him. He went down on one knee and drove upward again with the knife. Something which was both ice-cold and burned like fire struck him in the shoulder and he bit off a cry more startled than pained as he desperately came to his feet.

There was a sudden sound like a covey of quail taking flight. Arrows flashed past him and around him in a storm. He felt the whine of one which almost brushed his hair, and relief rose in him like a tide as the warriors came into view, each flight of shafts piercing the creatures in eyes and softer undersides, until the hissing shrieks faded and the only sound left was the wind through the high branches .  
Elgalad cleaned his knife and looked at Legolas with fervent gratitude.  
''I thank thee.'' The words were a long exhalation of breath.

''They were closer than we suspected.'' Legolas reached out to him. "But what in the world are you doing here, Elgalad? Did you not hear the reports that the spiders had been seen moving to this area?''

Elgalad did not dare look at Malthador; he felt the sharp gaze on him and knew that as far as any-one here was concerned, his special training was not to be spoken of.

"I w-was just...t-testing myself, my l-lord." His teeth chattered, he felt light-headed, saliva was springing in his throat.

Legolas cursed, his tone divided between anger and concern.  
"You did well, but it was foolish."

"He was lucky," Malthador said curtly.

"Luck did not kill those spiders, and Elgalad is in your company, you are supposed to know where he is!"

Elgalad felt a hand come under his chin and lift it. He would have spoken but for the sudden swarm of venom through his body. His skin flushed, he felt his gorge rise and doubled over, retching in distress as perspiration was forced through his pores. He gasped for air, hearing Legolas say something urgently, and felt an arm around his shoulders. Then the world spun away and left him floating in red darkness.

***

The wood-elves had long experience of the venom of spiders. It was not lethal but neither was it pleasant, and Elgalad spent some days in with the healers while the wound was treated and the poison leached from his veins.

The healer who tended him thought he saw fading bruises, all but invisible, but when he mentioned them, Elgalad only shook his head and soon the last remnants vanished. Once the fever and cramps subsided, he was glad to lie in the warm chamber and to rest.  
Thranduil and Legolas visited him to assure themselves that he was recovering, and the king took him to task for his recklessness.

"You have been with us long enough to know that the spiders come closer to our dwellings now," Thranduil reminded him sternly, but the hand which smoothed Elgalad's hair was gentle.  
"You proved yourself, but you might have been surrounded and that would have grieved us deeply. If you go anywhere alone, you must inform us. All my people know that."

"Forgive m-me, Sire." Elgalad burned with mortification, wanting to bury his head under the soft blankets and avoid the two pairs of clear eyes which were fixed on him.

"This time, I will," Thranduil said. "I am pleased with your courage but most displeased with your lack of sense. And we have spoken with Malthador, who failed in his duty to those who serve under him."

***

Legolas had carried the unconscious Elgalad to the healing chambers, Malthador following him closely, out of concern, it seemed. Once the healer had cleansed the sting and Elgalad had swallowed some of the potion brewed against the poison, he had begun to speak in delirium, words that he kept locked away in his heart, unlocked now by venom.

Malthador hissed at the word: "Úlairi." and Legolas' brows drew together.

"He has seen one of the Ringwraiths?" the Lieutenant's voice sounded over-loud in the quiet room. "What if he lead one to our realm? What if that cursed _Golodh – _"

"Be silent !"  
Malthador found himself pulled out of the room and slammed back against the wall of the passage.

"If Elgalad saw the Úlairi, no doubt his guardian brought him here because he would be safe." Legolas' voice was low and hard as the stone floor. "He could have died tonight because you – his commander ! – did not know where he was ! How many young and foolish warriors have you trained? You _ know _ all of them seek to prove themselves – I did ! How many of our young tyros have we lost this way?" His hand clenched in Malthador's tunic. "I will not lose Elgalad this way, even had his _ Golodh_ guardian not saved my life. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, my lord." Malthador spoke through set teeth. "I understand. I believed him wiser than he obviously is."

Legolas nailed him with a straight stare until the lieutenant looked away.  
"I do not think you understand anything. Your hatred for the _Golodh_ skews your vision. Elgalad is not of that kindred and he was only days past his coming of age when he came to us."

"I cannot trust him !" Malthador burst out.

"Then you are a damned fool. Heed my words and while Elgalad is of your company, you will ensure that he does nothing to endanger himself."

"You would cosset him, my prince !"

"_Cosset?!_ He has joined our patrols for the past hundred years," Legolas flashed. "Both under your command and mine. He is not _cosseted_ and would not desire to be. He is to be treated as all our young warriors are, and that means receiving the same care as they !" He turned away. "The King wishes to speak to you, I believe."  
Leaving Malthador fuming in the passage, he went back in to the chamber and closed the door.

***

"Elgalad," Legolas said when the healer had pronounced his patient fit to resume his duties. "I am to ride to Imladris in a few days with messages to Elrond from my father. I would like you to come." He saw the surprise and pleasure in the grey eyes and smiled as Elgalad said:  
"I w-would be h-honored." ~

~~~


	48. No Haven From Hate

~When the Elves of Mirkwood traveled to Imladris they would go south down the Anduin and cross at a place which had always been known simply as the High Pass. It was not a journey without dangers, but Great Eagles nested in the crags above the Pass, and their far-sighted eyes descried the movements of all that moved below. They were the descendants of mighty Thorondor of old, whom had dwelt in the peaks of the Encircling Mountains in the Elder Days, and the regal birds loathed the things of evil which crept below.

Although snow still capped the peaks of the Hithaeglir with white, the travelers rode down Anduin through an explosion of spring. Blossom foamed thick as churned cream on the blackthorn and the grass flushed into vibrant green. The wind still blew cold through the narrow Pass but as they descended on the other side the air became warmer. Choughs shouted from the corries and freshets of crystal water striped the cliffs like silver ribbons, wavering and scattering in tearing veils of mist.

Elgalad was enchanted, and the journey would have been wondrous save that Malthador also made one of the party.  
The lieutenant loathed the Golodhrim and Imladris was founded by the survivors of Ost-in-Edhil, but Elgalad did not consider his motivations. He was grateful to be spared his training for a time, and was mostly silent as his eyes drank in the beauty around him. It seemed they must ride all the way to the Great Sea, for there was no sign of any habitation in this wild land, only the brush of the winds over heather and the murmur of hill-streams. So it was that he was startled when, one morning not long after sunrise, the party drew rein.

He looked up, seeing a figure poised above them on a ridge, the sun striking sparks from mail and jewel. He glimpsed a bronze flash of long hair, before the rider moved and descended toward them.

He sat tall in the saddle, a cloak of flame-red pinned at one shoulder by a glittering brooch Beside Elgalad, Malthador hissed, and the rider appeared to hear it, for he turned his haughty head toward the lieutenant for a moment, then bowed over the saddle, greeting them in a voice rich and mellow as an old lute:  
''Folk of the Great Wood, I am come to escort thee to Imladris.'' There was warmth in the silver eyes as he continued: ''Though I know that thou doth know the way, Legolas.''

Elgalad realized then, whom this must be. As the horse was turned, he saw the great fall of hair caught back in triple braids with gold thread, and recognized the brooch-pin's emblem. He had seen it depicted in books and scrolls of lore in Thranduil's Halls, and heard it cursed. Its background was the fireflower emblem of the House of Fëanor, overlaid with a harp with three blazing jewels set on its strings. Legolas had spoken of this one: Tindómion, grandson of Fëanor through Maglor.

''Kinslayer," Malthador whispered, and the virulence in his words brought Elgalad's head about in surprise.

''This is a f-friend of our p-prince, sir,'' he murmured. ''And he h-himself is n-no Kinslayer.''

''He wears the badge of a cursed House. He openly flaunts it !'' The warrior's lips barely moved. ''He is a son of rape, and the taint of the Doom lies in his blood.''

Abashed, Elgalad fell silent, listening to the low murmur of conversation between the Fëanorion and the Legolas.  
The path was narrow, winding among ling and fern and rounded a thrust of rock before dipping down. Here they paused, and Elgalad looked down at the valley of Imladris with a welling sense of delight.

The refuge of Elrond Eärendilion was sited on a plateau. To the east, the hills hunched step by great step, toward the Towers of Mist, and in the shaping of Arda, cliffs had been thrust up, down which fuming waterfalls plunged. The Last Homely House was a complex of graceful white stone fringed by wide balconies. It was far larger than Elgalad had expected, a jewel guarded by rough, ancient hands of rock and water and climbing woods. As he listened he heard a bell chime out and echo through the valley.

They were greeted after their horses were taken from them in the ward. Tindómion lead the way up a shallow flight of steps to where several Elves stood, and one, with dark hair, stepped forward and greeted Legolas.

Elrond, son of Eärendil.

He was tall with shining grey eyes and a welcoming smile. At his side stood a woman silver-tressed, regally lovely: Celebrian, Lady of Imladris. Close to them stood two so alike that Elgalad could not have told one from the other, white of skin, gray-eyed with long black hair. Beside them was another woman of great beauty.  
By their faces, he guessed that these were the children of Elrond: Elladan, Elrohir, and Arwen. And then suddenly, Anor seemed to rise in the court, as another stepped forward, and gilt-gold hair flamed in the noonday. Elgalad did not need to guess who this was with that hair, the graceful, arrogant carriage: Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower. His smile was a flash of white as he came to greet Legolas. Elgalad felt awe close his throat and reduce him to mute admiration, and was grateful to be lead by servants of the house to guest chambers.  
Whilst here, he would lodge with Malthador and another warrior, Baranir and was glad of it, for he did not want to be alone with the Lieutenant. If that made him a coward, so be it. He also did not wish to incur any displeasure, for Malthador's mood was dark, his brows drawn close over his eyes.

''Remain here,'' he ordered. ''You are still under my supervision, remember, this is not a festal time.'' He strode from the chambers quickly at the soft affirmation, and Elgalad knelt to unbuckle his pack and lay his clothes in a chest.

A servant had brought in wine and he poured himself a cup, before going to the bathing room. He had heard of the Golodhrim building skills, and now saw it for the first time. The floor was warm under his feet, and pipes carried both hot and cold water into the sunken bath. After washing, he slipped into fresh clothes and walked to the wide balcony, gazing across the gardens. Here, nature and design were seamlessly melded; the scent of apple blossom and the cool, faint odor of bluebells drifted to him. Over all, sang the unceasing melody of water from the Bruinen and the falls which fringed the valley with silver tassels. Closing his eyes, he leaned against a pillar until soft voices reached him. Legolas came into view, speaking with Glorfindel the sun gilding their heads.  
Elgalad slipped back into the chamber and sat down, lifting his bow. There was to be an archery competition on the morrow, good-natured, Legolas had said, smiling, but nevertheless all the archers of both Imladris and Lasgalen would be on their mettle. Elgalad had not practiced since his encounter with the spiders, and no-one had mentioned his entering, but he wished to be prepared. Plucking three hairs from his head, he began to braid them.

There was a feast that night. It was more formal than any Elgalad had attended in the forest realm and it did not need Malthador's warning to render him mute. The lieutenant himself was cold, silent and his eyes were so nailed on the bronze haired Fëanorion that Elgalad wondered that the recipient of that hot, fixed stare did not feel it.

Later, in the Hall of Fire, he heard Tindómion sing the tale of Eärendil the Mariner. He felt surrounded by legend, and left inconspicuously to return to the room he shared, only lingering a moment in the gardens, breathing in the sweet, growing scents. He would have remained there all night, but knew Malthador would look for him were he absent from the guest-room. A last glitter of rich harp notes followed him as he crossed the grass and remained in his mind as he drifted into sleep.  
It seemed much later when he was woken by voices close by: Malthador and Baranir.

''...then you should not have come,'' Baranir was saying, in an impatient undertone. "I am your friend, but I will not make excuses if your behavior insults any-one in Imladris. You have never chosen to come here before!"

''I have not forgotten the one who brought him to us, who threatened me!" Malthador hissed. "He is Lachend** and I thought to discover something of him here.''

''I have been here with Legolas before and seen no-one such as you describe," Baranir returned. "Do not give Elrond, Lord Glorfindel or any any of his people offense while we are guest-friends...''

''Offense? I give offense when one of Kinslayer blood dwells here..?''

The voices faded as the two walked away into the night. Elgalad stared into the dimness for a long while before sleep came over him again. When he woke dawn was pushing back the night. Baranir was asleep, but Malthador's bed was empty.  
Silently Elgalad rose and drew a comb through his hair, knotting it back and dressing. He decided to see if he could find somewhere alone to practice with his bow, for he would not be surprised if Malthador pressed him into the competition even knowing his lack of skill.

The day would be fine; light mist lay over the valley and all was very still, the air sharp with the trump of spring. Grass and leaves were silver with heavy dew, and the sound of the waterfalls was a musical thunder in the air as snow-melt swelled the streams and the Bruinen.

Leaving the buildings behind him, Elgalad crossed a pasture where the occasional great oak and chestnut had found deep, rich soil to sink its roots. In the summer these would provide shade for the horses which grazed the lush turf, but now their leaves were still unfurling, vividly green and tender. Beyond lay a lake, which was still but for the ripple of a fish breaking its gleaming surface. He skirted it and began to climb through young bracken and moss-furred rocks. The sound of plunging water sounded closer and as he breasted the last few ells he saw that there was a small alp here, a little lap of green where a fall foamed into a spear shaped pool. Turning to look back, he saw the House of Elrond, nebulous through drifting mist

The pool looked tempting and after a quick glance around, Elgalad stripped off his tunic, breeches and boots and lowered himself in, feeling the water slide in liquid crystal over his skin. He dived under, and when he emerged and threw back his hair, it was to see an Elf sitting on the boulders, looking at him.

It was the Fëanorion, his hair unbraided and cascading over the stones, bronze darkening to black as he slid in to the pool.  
Elgalad backed away, discomposed, stammering: ''I am s-sorry, sir.''

''Elgalad, is it not?'' The other smiled. ''Legolas has spoken of thee.''

''Yes, I am Elgalad, s-sir, but I am afraid I have t-trespassed.'' Reaching back, he found the edge of the water and hoisted himself out.

''There is no need for thee to leave, this is not my private pool. Any-one may bathe here.'' Tindómion sounded amused. ''I will not eat thee. Come.'' His teeth gleamed in a smile.

Elgalad inclined his head. ''I thank thee, b-but I should n-not be here, I was l-looking for somewhere to p-practice, but I should b-be in my chamber.''

The black brows rose briefly. ''Thou art a warrior, Legolas has told us, and recently gave a good account of thyself against the giant spiders armed only with a dagger.''

''Not good enough, l-lord, I was s-stung.'' Elgalad replied with a grimace. "I am under L-Lieutenant M-Malthador's... instruction at this t-time.''

Curious, thought Tindómion, regarding the other. This was the one with something of a mystery surrounding him, brought to Lasgalen by a Noldorin stranger. His stammer and countenance made him appear very young, but his height and build were that of a mature warrior.

''Come,'' he said again, and put out his hand. There was a momentary hesitation before Elgalad clasped it and slipped back down into the pool. ''Dost thou shoot this day with the others?'' Tindómion asked, resting back against the rocks.

''I do n-not know, lord, what my d-duties are while I am h-here. But I h-hoped to practice, in case.''

''Your duties do not involve this.'' Malthador's cold voice shocked Elgalad so that he started and flinched. Tindómion raised his brows in cool inquiry and said lazily: ''He is most welcome here.''

''Come.'' Malthador ignored him. A muscle was bunched in his jaw as he waited for Elgalad to climb from the water and gather his clothes.

''Return here whenever thou doth wish, Elgalad,'' Tindómion called after him.

''My th-thanks, s-sir,'' came the quiet response, and the Fëanorion quirked a brow thoughtfully, watching them leave.

~~~

''I will bring Elgalad in a little while,'' Malthador had said to Baranir, and waited until the room was quiet. Elgalad held himself stiffly, afraid of what was to come. There had been a storm seething within the lieutenant, which had been building since they had first met with Tindómion and now broke over him. He knew flogging was part of his training. He also knew this whipping was purely a punishment. He felt whimpers escape from his mouth, tried to smother them in the tapestry. The vivid colors sew there burned and danced in his eyes.

''Golodh lover !'' The backhanded slam against his face staggered him, stained his cheek scarlet, and before he could recover his balance his arm was jerked up and behind him and he was forced against the wall. Pain flared through his shoulder and throbbed through his face, his back flamed with the blows of the belt.

''And with Kinslayer blood !'' Malthador increased the pressure on Elgalad's arm, forcing a whimper of pain from him. ''What are you, some spy? What your Golodh instruct you to do? Why did you meet with him?''

''I am n-no spy ! I sw-swear !''

''Who is he?''

''I d-do not know !''

''You traveled with him from Edhellond, so you say and do not even know his name? Come, even for you, I find that impossible to believe!'' Malthador spat with contempt .

''He n-never told m-me !''

''What did he want with Lasgalen?''

''N-nothing.'' Elgalad gritted his teeth.

''I will know this. I have been patient with you long enough. You brought danger and the curse of Kinslayer blood to our forest. And now you would bed with a bloody Fëanorion. It is enough !'' He jerked Elgalad to face him. ''You will go from Imladris now. Go to your cursed Golodh or to the sea. Do not come back or I will expose you as a traitor to our realm, and you will be exiled. Either way, you will not return to the forest again.''

Pressure built in Elgalad's throat. His eyes fixed on Malthador's.  
Who said, carefully: ''Do you understand me, fool? You have hidden beneath the prince's arm long enough. He pities you ! You truly think that you could ever become an officer?'' His brief laugh was scornful. ''You are spoken of as a fine warrior because you are a friend of Legolas, that is all. He trained you and was easy on you. Do you hear me? He pitied you, some orphan from our ancient Elf-haven. You realize how very unlikely that is? What battle did your father die in? How did your mother pass? What Elf would abandon a child? No, whoever you truly are, you brought lies and darkness into the forest, with your innocent eyes and stammer, and tears. But I saw you kiss that black haired bastard, and you never told Legolas that, did you? You shame us ! You are not fit to live in our realm. Do you think any-one will care, or even notice you are gone? Take yourself out of my sight and crawl back to the damned Golodh, or die.''

Under the blossoming bruise on his cheek, Elgalad was white as salt. He swallowed, frantically trying to blink back the tears as Malthador pushed him away.

''Get your pack and go.''

Blindly, he groped for it, his bow and quiver, desperately pressing his eyes against the sleeve of his tunic to clear them .

''Pathetic.'' The word stung him and he ran from the chamber, gasping. He did not see anything; shapes passed him in a blur. He felt, rather than saw, the torrent of water under him, thrumming through the narrow bridge that he crossed and then his stride lengthened. He sensed trees about him, weaved through them unthinkingly, not knowing where he was going.

Tears spilled down his cheeks as he fled, running from the chasm of scalding, mortified anguish which opened within him. A hot, red fist of shame lodged under his breast.~

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Lachend ** In Beleriand in the First Age the Grey Elves gave to the Amanyar [ The Noldoli Exiles who returned from Valinor ] the name Lachend [ Lechind pl ] - or '' Flame-eyed '', for the brilliance and the incandescence of their glances. [ From History of Middle earth]  
> Malthador had never seen a '' Lachend '' in the flesh, save Glorfindel, since few Aman-born Eldar remained on Middle earth. He probably saw Vanimórë's eyes as being unusual and very bright and used that term, believing him Amanyar.


	49. That Which Is Lost

~ ''That was unsurprising.'' Tindómion lowered his bow with a wry smile at Legolas as they went to retrieve their arrows. The Prince's had grouped so close in the gold that he merely had to close his fingers around them to withdraw them.

"Istelion, a word from the wise: do not give up the sword."  
It was Glorfindel's voice and the Fëanorion turned and made a rude gesture. Glorfindel winked at Legolas, and laughter from the Silvan Elves mingled with praise as Tindómion stepped back and Elladan and Elrohir came forward. The Fëanorion's eyes swept the faces of the Mirkwood Elves. All were there except Elgalad, but the lieutenant, Malthador, stood not far from Baranir, set-lipped. Moving to where Glorfindel stood, Tindómion murmured:  
"Elgalad is not here."

Glorfindel's head turned. "That is strange, but perhaps he did not wish to participate."

"It is more than that. He was up at the high pool this morning, I thought to speak to him," Tindómion shrugged. "He is orphaned, perhaps I feel somewhat akin to him, but at least I have a mother."

"Legolas has befriended him, but I understand, Istelion. What happened?"

"That one, Malthador came. He was not pleased to see Elgalad and I together, apparently Elgalad's duties here do not include speaking to a kinslayer." Tindómion's voice was dry rather than angry. "And last night at the feast Malthador was looking at me as if I had killed all his family."

"There will always be hatred of thy blood. In some it borders on obsession." Glorfindel glanced at the wood-Elf who simmered with undischarged temper.

"Malthador's hatred is of no concern to me, but I would not bring trouble on Elgalad. I wonder if that is why he is not here.''

''Well," Glorfindel said with a smile which shone like his blade. "I will ask him."

He crossed the greensward and Baranir turned to face him, Malthador did not move, his gaze fixed pointedly on the archers.

''Elgalad, who came with thee. He is not here. We wondered why.''

It was Baranir who answered. ''He is very shy. Malthador told me he did not wish to attend.'' He shot a look of query at his companion, and with obvious reluctance Malthador turned his head. He said curtly: ''That is so. He desired to remain in our chamber.''

''I see.''

"Elgalad was a fine archer, but since the autumn his skill fallen off," Baranir explained. "There is talk among the warriors that he should put aside his weapons. He is gentle and would make a fine healer. Malthador had had him in hand a short time, and noticed it first."

''It is true." There was no mistaking the venom in Malthador's voice. "A healer or scribe, or even a servant in the halls would better befit him. He knew he would shame himself and our realm, and chose to remain behind today.''

''That is too harsh,'' Baranir reproved. ''He killed three great spiders with a dagger alone before we found him.''

''Any-one can fight if they are afraid,'' Malthador snapped.

Glorfindel stared at him until color blazed into the pale cheeks and then moved away, returning to Tindómion.  
''They believe him ashamed to come - that he has lost his skill."

The Fëanorion's eyes narrowed.  
"How does one lose a skill like a dropped coin? Has not Legolas told us he is a fine archer? He trained him."

"Fear can debilitate any-one, Istelion, we have seen it before, but if that is so, I would like to know what so frightened Elgalad. I am going down to the house."

All attention was now on the three-way competition between Legolas and the twins. Glorfindel touched Lindir's arm.  
"Tell Legolas we are looking for Elgalad." he murmured, and the bard nodded.

The chamber which Elgalad shared with Malthador and Baranir was empty, and the two were about to leave when Glorfindel paused and laid a hand on the rich tapestry. There was a smear of red on the bright blue. When his drew his fingers away, a faint imprint marked his skin.

''It is still wet,'' Tindómion looked around quickly. ''There are only two packs here.''

''Come,'' Glorfindel said and as they left the room almost ran into Legolas coming up the steps.  
''Lindir said you wanted me, is something wrong? And where is Elgalad?"

"He seems to have gone, he has taken his pack." Glorfindel searched the prince's face, which suddenly hardened.

"Malthador said he had chosen to stay here. I was going to come myself after I had shot."

As one they ran to the stables, and the clatter of horses hooves sounded on the cobbles of the ward.

''Glorfindel !'' They looked up to see Fanari running toward them, the skirt of her long bliaut caught up over one arm.

''What is it, Fanari?''

''Art thou looking for Elgalad?'' At their quick nods she went on: ''I saw him crossing the bridge, running. I glimpsed him only, but that hair is rare enough. I called, but he did not hear me – ''

''How long ago?" Legolas asked.

''Not long. Just after the last bell."

''We are not long behind then, we will find him." Glorfindel wheeled his horse and they they cantered from the ward toward the narrow bridge, crossing it in single file before climbing the steep path above. It levelled gradually, dropping into the dense woods which lay before the Bruinen Ford. Once among the trees they slowed.

''You do not know him, but can you sense him?'' Legolas asked.

Glorfindel let his thoughts flow outward like a ripple from a stone dropped in a pool, calling Elgalad's name with his mind. After a moment he shook his head.  
''I feel great distress. What has happened to him?''

''I told you that he saw his former guardian in the summer, since then he has been...different.''

"Is it true that he has become unskilled?" Tindómion asked and Legolas shook his head.  
"He has become more uncertain I would say. He could have died when the spiders attacked him, but he fought well."

"He might have died if thou hadst not found him," Glorfindel said.

"Malthador was reprimanded for that," Legolas' anger was entirely directed at his lieutenant. "He should have known where Elgalad was, should never have sent him out."

"Malthador – " Glorfindel's voice was thoughtful. "Elgalad was quiet last night, but he seemed calm enough. Today he flees and leaves blood behind. This morning, Malthador found him up at the high pool with Istelion. I wonder if his Lieutenant chose to punish him for consorting with the son of a Kinslayer?"

Legolas' eyes flashed and he touched his heels to his mount. "If he did..." He left the implications unspoken.

 

***

 

Beyond Imladris the northlands lay almost empty. The Wars of Angmar had finally culminated in the capture of Fornost Erain, and the death of Arvedui, last King of Arthedain, in 1974.  
The following year, Earnur of Gondor avenged this at the battle of Fornost, and the Witchking had fled, unable to face the unsheathed might of Glorfindel.  
But revenge did not repopulate the land, and now it was all was desolate save for a few settlements of the Dúnedain. The way was long and wild to the havens on the Gulf of Lhûn. To the north of the ancient east-west road, the Trollshaws shrugged their rough shoulders. They had long been the haunt of Hill-trolls, and the riders had to hope Elgalad had not strayed from the road.

"His guardian," Legolas murmured. "You knew him once. I never told Elgalad. He never ceases to think of his lord, and I do not wish to rub salt in his open wounds. And, from what you told me, I think Elgalad is safer with us."

"I did not know him well Legolas." Glorfindel said, with a look back into the past. "Yes, it is the same person; there are not two with eyes like that in this world. He was enslaved to the Dark Lord, and longed to be one of us. I doubt I ever saw any-one who hated Sauron more than he did. It did not surprise me when you told me of his guardianship of Elgalad in kindness, or that he aided thee. He was a mystery." He paused. "And I vowed I would discover who he was, one day." ~

 

~~~


	50. Marks Without, Wounds Within

~ These were the years of the Watchful Peace. Sauron had withdrawn the east and was to remain quiescent for almost four hundred years. Mordor brooded, Orodruin slumbered, but in a city far across cold deserts and undulating steppes, smoke rose from sacrificial altars and drums beat in the temples of Tashon Narr.  
Sauron watched impassively, and with boredom as red-dripping organs were ripped from tethered prisoners who became mewling, wretched things, all humanity reft from them before their deaths. With each death his soul gained strength as he prepared for his return to the Black Land. A slow process, but a proven one.

A steaming bowl was held before his gaze by a bowing priest. The man had lived a remarkably long time after his navel was cut, the intestine pulled out and he was whipped about the great pillar, his guts unraveling. Screams had rebounded against the walls until his voice failed him, then his strength and finally his life.

Sauron waved a hand, and the offering was tipped onto the coals of a vast brazier. A foul stench went up, a gong sounded, and harsh chanting began. Acolytes, in their robes of blood red and black, intoned ceaselessly from the shadows.

Chains clinked as Vanimórë moved, eyes flashing with impotent rage in the glow from the fires. During the Watchful Peace, Sauron kept Vanimórë with him often, save when he was sent out as an emissary to other realms. Naked, splendid, hair loose to his knees, there was nothing which provided such a fitting end to these sacrifices as sex.

Vanimórë resisted, but he had a breaking point; most often it would be a child, and Sauron would wait for him to offer himself, bow that proud head. He would straddle Sauron's lap, place himself on hands or knees or lie back as a lover might, save his teeth were locked shut, his eyes wild with rage and shame.  
There had never been one in whom Sauron found such endless pleasure as his son. His hate, his unbending pride and his beauty were as addictive to Sauron as poppy to a mortal.  
He jerked on the chain, bringing Vanimórë closer until he stood before the great seat. The drums beat more urgently; the priests were familiar with this culmination.

''Kiss me,'' Sauron teased, knowing how much his son loathed this. There was something more intimate in a kiss than in sex; whores sold themselves for their bodies, not for a kiss, which showed tenderness, even love. Such emotions had become alien to Sauron although he had desired Melkor – desired and loathed him to the bottom of his soul. Thus he understood Vanimórë very well, knew that he felt more abhorrence in sham-affection than in servicing his father. It did not cause the pain of rape, it was far more insidious, for it forced him to partake in the prelude to his own usage.  
Oh, Sauron understood him, how it was to be imprisoned by the mind of one stronger, and Vanimórë was intelligent enough to know it, even if he did not admit it. To him, allowing one's own experiences to dictate how one lived, offering cruelty because one had been offered cruelty, were a continuance of evil. In fact, Sauron often thought, it was as well his son did not consider how alike they were too deeply. Rapport would not have suited him at all.

But Vanimórë was _very _ skilled. Any-one observing would have believed him hungry for Sauron's touch. His lips melted into his father's sensuously and parted as his tongue explored the softness within, then he moved down, teeth grazing over Sauron's throat and chest, over the nipples which hardened under his mouth, down...And all the while, as Sauron grew further aroused, he felt Vanimórë's wrath and loathing clamoring for release, screaming behind those inner barriers .  
The hard, white teeth could have done much damage, but he would not inflict pain on his father. Others would have paid the price as well as he.

''Dost thou still feel him, that lovely Elf?'' Sauron whispered as his hands closed on the black-crowned skull and held it. It was a measure of Vanimórë's iron control that he did not pause as he worked toward Sauron's release. The fingers clamped harder, the breathing came more quickly, the chanting of the priests grew faster.  
''Dost thou imagine him like this?''

The gush of his essence filled Vanimórë's mouth and he swallowed reflexively, before Sauron withdrew, leaving him kneeling, coils of hair flooding the stone like black serpents.

_ I do not think of him at all. He is free._

''Free, and afraid, despairing, lonely...thou didst bind him too well, my son.''

_I had nothing to give him._

Sauron's hand grasped his chin and forced it up. ''Thou art such a liar. Almost better than I.''  
He flicked on the chain as he turned, leading Vanimórë like a leashed dog from the inner chamber.

***

Elgalad knelt beside the small stream, drank and dabbed his bitten lips with the back of his hand. He felt hollow, like a reed through which winds blew after the pith had been pulled out.  
_ What am I? _  
He had thought he had a place in the Great Wood. He had done all he could, and it was not enough.  
_ They pitied me..._  
He thought he would choke on the shame of that thought.

_ My Lord, where art thou? _  
There was never any answer. There would never be an answer.

The sun danced like a mockery on the stream and he closed his eyes against it.  
All Elves bore an incredible sense of place for where they were born and lived, deeper than a Mortal could ever truly comprehend. With his lord he had not felt the lack of a home, and when he was gone, despite the utter desolation of his absence, Elgalad had embraced the forest as something to anchor him, something else he might love. For an Elf to have no place was inconceivable, which was why leaving Middle earth for the Blessed Realm was such a monumental decision, which some Elves never would make.

The sound of the water soothed him a little, as it always did. A sweet voice seemed to weave through it, and as he lifted his head he thought he smelled brine in this land so far from the sea...

The voice faded to the murmur of water over stone and through it, he heard the beat of horses hooves. He rose, his heart slamming into his throat and turned, looking for anywhere to hide. To the north, woods climbed rough green hills. He leaped into a run.  
A voice called to him, but he did not look back, although he heard hooves drawing closer until, without warning, a hand grasped the back of his tunic and lifted him up as if he were a child. Rich gold hair brushed across his face, and voice just as opulent said:  
''Peace, Elgalad.''

The horse came to a stop, and Elgalad was set on his feet, finding himself firmly held by Glorfindel, whose grip indicated that he had no intention of releasing him. But if his hold was steel the ice-blue eyes were kind as they traced his features. His palm touched the cheek where Malthador had struck him, and it seemed to Elgalad as if the pain and heat from it faded.

''Where dost thou go, Elgalad?'' Glorfindel asked softly.

Desperately trying to gather some dignity around him, Elgalad stammered, looking at Legolas:  
''Forgive m-me! I.. w-would have shamed th-thee...I h-have become unskilled, not f-fit to be a w-warrior. I would n-not stay to shame th-thee further. Let m-me go. I wish t-to find my l-lord.''

Glorfindel met Legolas' eyes with a slight head shake.  
_He was struck. Malthador I would guess. _

The prince's face was bright with fury as he reached out and laid a hand on Elgalad's shoulder.  
"Your lord? Why now? Do you know where he is?"

The silver head shook in defeat.  
''I c-cannot feel h-him any m-more. But I w-will find him! I have n-no place in thy father's realm, I...'' The words were jerked out between shuddering breaths.

''You do have a place,'' Legolas said firmly. ''Your guardian saved my life and brought you to me so that you would be safe. I would not be repaying my debt to him if I let you leave, Elgalad. And you are my friend. I love you. I do not release those I love so easily.''

''He wished m-me to be with my p-people. But...wh-what use am I? I would rather be d-dead !'' The cry was despairing. ''I would walk to M-Mordor, but they s-say the Dark L-Lord is gone and if he is n-not there, neither will my l-lord be...''

There was a long silence and then Elgalad's face flamed scarlet at what he had revealed.

''He is very tall; black hair to his knees when loose, and eyes the like of which I have never seen before. Deep violet,'' Glorfindel stated quietly and watched astonishment flood the sweet, sad face.  
"Yes, I have seen him, so has Istelion and Elrond. Thou hast not told us anything we do not know." He glanced at Legolas with a nod.  
''He was captured at the siege of Barad-dûr, was our prisoner for seven years. He appeared Noldo, but he was bound to Sauron's mind. He went south after the ...victory.''

Tindómion's eyes were bleak, as if he asked: _ What victory, the Ring was not destroyed. My King was dead..._ But he inclined his head in confirmation to Elgalad.

"I do not know who he is,'' Glorfindel's continued. ''But he was right to take thee to thy kin, Elgalad."

''You belong with us and you have never shamed us." Legolas held his arms. "Come."

"N-no.. I c-cannot!'' Despair whipped through Elgalad's protest.''_Please! _ I c-cannot go back!''

''There is nothing to fear.'' The prince cast a long look east towards Imladris, then met Glorfindel's eyes in silent communication. ''I promise you.'' He ran his fingers through the webs of silver-gilt hair and drew Elgalad toward him. After one rigid moment, he leaned against him, burying his face in Legolas' neck like a child. ~

~~~


	51. Hallowed Ground

 

The wind roamed the land, impersonal and mild, drawing its fingers through dark and fair hair. For a long moment Legolas held Elgalad, then smoothed a hand down his back in a gesture of comfort. The movement brought a hiss and flinch. The prince stepped back and gently drew the tunic up, revealing red, bloody wheals.

"Did Malthador do this?" he demanded in sudden, astonished fury.

Elgalad did not answer. His eyes were cast toward the ground, his cheeks flushed.

"Elgalad, you swore fealty to my father, in his name you will answer me. No-one else would touch you ! I want to know why he did it !"

Glorfindel glanced at Tindómion who said, an edge in his voice:  
"Was it because of this morning? He was angry at thee for consorting with me? There were no marks on thee then."

"He is t-training me.'' The dew-clear eyes flashed from Legolas to Glorfindel as Elgalad tugged the tunic back. ''So I m-might be an officer, as h-he is." He looked at Legolas for confirmation.  
''B-But I...I failed. I c-cannot draw my bow without p-pain, I will put others in d-danger....''

"That is what he _told_ you?"

"He said no-one s-speaks of it."

Legolas seemed bereft of speech for a moment. He stared at Elgalad, the two Noldor, then removed the tunic again, firmly countering Elgalad's attempts to stop him. The white skin looked raped by the those dark wounds. He felt Glorfindel's hand close on his shoulder, knew that both he and Tindómion sensed his fury, what he wanted to do.

''Set an arrow and draw back the string, Elgalad. Hold it,'' he said crisply and, inured to obedience, Elgalad did as he was ordered. No pain crossed his face but it showed in the eyes as the sinews of his shoulders and back moved.

''This is why your archery has become difficult,'' Legolas said tightly.

''A belt, not a whip," Tindómion decided, and shared a look with Glorfindel. Legolas' fingers hovered over the taut muscles, where small beads of blood broke.  
''As soon as you pull the string back to full tension, these lesions break – as they are meant to."

"He knew where to lay them," Glorfindel agreed. "In battle one would disregard them, but in training..."

Legolas eased Elgalad's hands from the bow.  
''How long has this been happening?'' he asked. "This is _not_ an established method of training! Have you _ever_ known me to do this, ever heard any-one refer to it?"

"Malthador said it w-was not spoken of - that every w-warrior who attained rank p-passed through it..."

Legolas' teeth snapped together.  
"Clever Malthador ! If that were true we would be no better than the Men who serve Mordor!" His eyes held a fierce light as he looked at Glorfindel and Tindómion.  
"Why? _Why_ would he do this? he has been an officer for a long time, trained many of our young warriors. He is respected."

"He d-does not like me," Elgalad said, and Legolas' turned back to him in amazement.  
"Even if he does not, he has no right to flog you."

"Malthador wanted him to fail," Tindómion said. "To shame him, or have him run, as he did. And this morning he saw us together. I am Fëanorion, and I bear the badge of that House openly. Malthador hates our bloodline."

"Yes, he hates the _ Golodhrim._" The prince's voice was sharp. "Although he has never said anything about Glorfindel and I, not that I have heard anyway. I wondered why he offered to make one of the party. He never has before. Come to the stream, Elgalad, I want to bathe your back, until we can get it tended in Imladris."

Elgalad stood still under Legolas' ministrations and said unwillingly:  
''He c-called me _Golodh lover._ He asked m-me who my l-lord was...He thinks me a s-spy...'' His gaze flashed up. ''I do not know w-who my lord is, and I would n-never betray thee !"  
He was so vehement, so despairing that Legolas found his breath coming short with compassion and rage. He cupped the bruised cheek and whispered: "I know, Elgalad."

Tindómion was looking at Elgalad with narrowed silver eyes. He said matter-of-factly:  
"He wants thee, does he not? I saw the way he looked at thee by the pool. Has he approached thee and been rejected?"

Elgalad looked away, and Legolas' lips parted in comprehension.  
"He must have seen you with your guardian in the summer, I told him to watch you, since you had never left the forest."

"I n-never saw him." Memories shook across the Elf's face. "It w-was when I first came to Mirkwood..." his colour heightened in the face of the waiting stares. "He w-was kind but then he...t-touched me. I did not want him t-to. I did not mean to be d-discourteous, but I did not...want h-him."

Legolas let out a held breath. His eyes caught the sun in pale flashes.  
"He thought you rejected him for your _ Golodh _ guardian and after that incident beside the lake, he decided to punish you under the guise of training you." His white teeth bit out the words in disgust. "Malthador will not touch you again."

" But..."

"Do not plead for him," Legolas held up a hand. "He is a disgrace to our Kingdom. I can act in my father's stead in this matter. And I will."

~~~

After dressing Elgalad's back, the men strode to the chambers he had shared. Legolas was silent, berating himself as he walked. Why had he not seen what was happening? He had believed that Elgalad had been grieved that he could not go with his once-guardian, and the sorrow had lain on his mind like a fog. When he thought of the brutal belt-marks, the bruise on the fair cheek, his hands clenched as if he were throttling Malthador. Elgalad's refusal to say anything was almost alarming in its stubbornness.

''His pack is still here,'' Glorfindel said. ''So he has not left.''

''What is it, my lord?''  
It was Baranir in the doorway, his face concerned. He took a step back as Legolas spun to face him.  
''Where is Malthador, Baranir?''

"He was at the archery grounds, he left not long after you did, my lord." Baranir frowned in bewilderment at the prince's tone.

"Do you know anything of him beating Elgalad under the pretense that he was training him to become an officer?" Legolas demanded.

The expression on the other's face was of unfeigned shock as he exclaimed: "_What? _"

"Do you swear it?"

"I swear it! I know he has long – disliked Elgalad, because of the _ Golodh _ who brought him to Mirkwood."

"This would be the same _Golodh_ who saved my life when I was a youth? And Elgalad is no _Golodh !_"

Baranir raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness.  
"No, but..."

"Do not excuse him! He has acted with cruelty, is culpable of lying to one of our own people, guilty of torture."  
The warrior closed his mouth, his face troubled, but Legolas was relentless.  
"Do you know where he has gone?"

"No, my lord, on my word, I do not. But please; this is shameful yes, but Malthador has always been a defender of our realm and a loyal subject of your father."

"Yes, he has, which is why I will merely exile him. Elgalad, I want you to go to my chamber and remain there."

Elgalad moved to the door as Legolas walked out, and Baranir said, his voice very low: ''Wait. I am sorry. Had I known any of this I would have reported it. That you said nothing these past two seasons astonishes me. But Elgalad, exile is worse than death.''

To be unhomed was a brutal punishment, and so rare that Baranir could not remember it being meted out before.

Elgalad's eyes came up at that.  
''It would bring great grief on his parents were he to be banished from the realm. Nothing excuses his actions but he will have only an endless life of wandering if he is sent from the realm. The Dark Lord may be gone, but Thranduil does not believe this peace will endure forever. Malthador must indeed be punished, but you could speak for him, and ensure he is not exiled. I know it is much to ask, but you have a kind heart, Elgalad. Will you think on this?''

Elgalad did not have to think. Baranir had drawn an image which his heart recognized all too well; of one lost and alone and severed from those he loved. His face was transparent with conflicting emotions. How could he allow such a thing to happen?

''No, sir, I w-would never wish any-one t-to be exiled. I will s-speak for him. Thou d-dost not think h-he is gone?''

Baranir laid a hand on his arms.  
''He would never run, and were he travelling back to the forest he would have equipped himself; he is very experienced. Thank you, Elgalad, I know this is not easy, but many will be grateful. Legolas is your friend, and furious on your behalf, but Thranduil should know of this and pronounce judgment and perhaps only your support could mitigate the punishment.''

~~~

Malthador had not appeared that night when the Elves gathered to feast. Legolas, Glorfindel and Tindómion had searched for him, joined by Elladan and Elrohir when they were apprised of the situation.

"Elgalad could remain here a while," Elladan had suggested. "Perhaps he would like to speak to those who met his guardian? "

"Or perhaps it would only make him more lonely," Legolas had said. "He has never spoken of him, even to me. And he cannot follow him. He was brought to us for a good reason. I will think on it. My thanks, Elladan."

When Malthador had not been found by sunset, Elgalad wondered if he had gone into the wilds because he believed he might face exile. When Legolas asked him if he would come to the Hall of Fire, he declined.  
"I will remain h-here and read, if I m-may?" He lifted the beautifully bound book Elladan had brought from his father's collection.  
"The Fall of Gondolin?" Legolas murmured. "That is a tragic tale. Glorfindel rarely speaks of it. If it is sung in the Hall of Fire he leaves. I learned it from Tindómion's mother, Fanari. She saw his duel with the Balrog and his death." His eyes were somber under long lashes. "A sad tale for this night, Elgalad."

"Th-they all are, are they n-not?"  
Legolas nodded and smoothed the silver hair.  
"That is true enough, yet there is glory and beauty amidst the sorrow."

At a tap on the door, he opened it and stepped back, saying: "Thank you for coming, lady, I will feel better if he has company this evening."

Elgalad rose as he saw Fanari enter, her handmaid behind her bearing a jug of spiced wine.

"I am glad to help." she smiled, and Elgalad looked at her serene face with a sense of wonder; she was Gondolindrim, and had survived the terrible destruction of that famed city.

Delicious scents rose up as she poured the wine into a goblet and handed it to Elgalad before sitting down opposite him, her hands clasped in her lap. He looked down as he drank, and said surprisedly: "This is R-Red Harvest, lady."

Her eyes danced.  
"Yes, Elrond buys some each year from King Thranduil and Legolas is kind enough to being some when he visits us. Glorfindel thought it would relax thee." She looked at the book he held, and the amusement vanished, sadness shadowed her face like a cloud, but she said: "It was a place of light and joy for many years before it's fall."

"Legolas said thou d-didst see L-Lord Glorfindel battle the B-balrog?"

"There were many Balrog's slain in Gondolin," she murmured. "Ecthelion slew Gothmog and died himself, and Glorfindel gave his life to protect those who escaped. Yes, I witnessed it." Something in her eyes reminded Elgalad of his lord: memories ancient and ever fresh.

"It is h-hard to believe he d-died, to look at h-him," he offered, and felt immediately foolish.

"When he returned I wondered that the joy did not utterly quench the grief I had felt as his death," Fanari replied. "It is strange, but it does not. Because I _did_ see him die." Her fingers gripped one another more tightly. "Nothing is forgotten."

Elgalad moistened his mouth with wine, tasting ginger and honey.  
"He said h-he had met my l-lord." He swallowed back the word too late, but Fanari's expression remained unchanged.

"Yes. So did Elrond and my son. He was captured and held during the siege of Barad-dûr. Glorfindel said some dread sorcery bound his mind to the Dark Lord's."

Elgalad stared at her, willing her to say more and she leaned forward.  
"I am sorry, I know very little. They did ask him to come here but he refused."

There was a silence as he looked into the hot ruby depths of the wine before he drained it and rose.  
"May I walk outside, lady?"

"Of course," Fanari smiled. "It is a beautiful night. But Legolas wishes thee to rest. Do not go far."

"I will not," he promised and slipped out onto the balcony. In the dimness, he blinked away his tears and looked up at the stars, wondering if they shone on his lord somewhere, or if he was so far away that their patterns were changed.  
He stepped down onto the grass, following the walls of the house until they terminated. Soft lamplight glowed from many chambers, but faded as he walked further, leaving only the stars and a gibbous moon. As he turned to go back, he saw a movement from the corner of his eye. To his left a pathway rose to a steep, rocky cliff-face. It terraced the star-dusted sky like a great wall. He did not know what made him think of Malthador, that he might be near, afraid to return, or summoning his courage before he did. If Elgalad could find him, tell him that he would speak for him, he would feel less guilty. With this in his mind he followed the path upward. It was soft under his feet, laid with bark chips. A breeze soughed above his head and he saw, as he breasted the steepest point of the path, that here lay a little, hidden apron of land, smaller than the alp he had climbed to this morning.  
A tree grew here, and he reached out and felt the papery bark of a silver birch, heard the sound of water which foamed down into a pool.  
A nightingale sounded from close by, and it was like a sorrowful greeting. He stood motionless, feeling echoes of love and loss, then took a few steps back and stopped as his boots struck something hard.  
The stone lay flush to the greensward like the tiles in the bathing chambers, and he knelt, ran his hands over the surface. It was polished smooth save for the deep-carved letters which he traced gently, realizing that they were not Sindarin; these were Fëanarion runes and they spelled out a name he knew, that all Elves knew.

"_Gil-galad." _

He sat back on his heels, startled, feeling as if he trespassed. This was a grave-marker?

Gil-galad, last High King of the Elves, slain at the Last Alliance.  
"Forgive m-me," he whispered and began to rise.

A foot slammed his face against the marble, splitting the skin over his bruised cheekbone. Pain lanced through his head and the boot descended again. Lights exploded through his skull and he cried out.

''_Unhallowed, unclean, cursed_ just as you are, as all the _Golodhrim_ who you would have inside your pretty backside!''

Elgalad rolled aside, heard Malthador curse as his next blow missed, and kicked out, feeling his boot impact hard on the other's shin.  
Malthador swore again and melted back into the darkness, circling. Elgalad sprang from the ground like a cat, his head striking the lieutenant in the midriff. Both went down, rolling over and over in a dogfight that had no rules. There were gasps and curses, then a splash as Malthador fell into the pool, dragging Elgalad with him. Even as he fell, his muscles corded and he heaved Elgalad aside – whose head struck one of the rocks at the water's edge.

In the moonlight, the body floated, the pale hair fanning out in a great drift, and Malthador knew that he was unconscious and would drown. He made no move, telling himself it had been an accident, and he felt only a savage satisfaction that Elgalad would die.

As he turned away, a hand seized his hair.  
Glorfindel's aura raged storm-gold in the night and as Malthador's feet scrabbled for purchase on the ground, his ears rang with eddying blood. Tindómion ran past him, drawing Elgalad from the pool and turning him on one side to allow the water to drain from his mouth.

''Thou..!'' Glorfindel's voice was iron. ''Thou wouldst defile this place with murder? Legolas!''

Malthador fell as he was released, gagging for breath, and the sound was echoed by a cough from Elgalad. Tindómion supported him as he gasped for air, retching out the water he had swallowed.

''If thou hadst killed him...'' Glorfindel left the threat hanging in the air like a war banner

Legolas' blow would have knocked Malthador back into the pool has he not held him by his jerkin.

"How _ dare _ you touch him ! How _ dare _ you bring shame upon my father's realm ! How _dare_ you bring orc-work into Mirkwood and Imladris !"  
His second blow blow snapped Malthador's head sideways. "Be thankful that Elgalad lives, for if he did not I would challenge you to single combat before every man and woman in this valley! From now until you come before my father you are a prisoner, and at dawn I will mete out my own punishment for you to carry with you on our road, just as Elgalad carried _his_ wounds day after day."  
He looked over Malthador's head as Tindómion lifted Elgalad into his arms. "Thank the One your mother came for us."

"My mother was uneasy," the Fëanorion replied as he walked past the kneeling wood-Elf who turned his head and spat toward him.  
"Do not test me, not in _this_ place!" Fire flashed through the words with such pain and rage that the lieutenant froze. Legolas jerked him to his feet, and Glorfindel expertly bound his hands.  
"Fanari went to Elrond," he said. "Let us hope his skull is not cracked."

The prince stared at Malthador.  
"If Elgalad dies, may Eru have pity on you, for I will not." ~

~~~


	52. And Night Falls Between Us

  
_Elgalad. _

My Lord.

Forget me. I can give thee nothing.

No. Please...

Other voices swam into his hearing; on the cusp of them, fading even as his consciousness returned, he thought, hoped, that he heard that beloved voice whisper his name a last time: _''Meluion...''_ before it melted into the waking world.

There was a scent of lavender, a sensation of softness. Elgalad wondered where he was. He blinked and pain pounced with a thud through his skull. A surge of sickness rose in his throat, and he moaned, but then a hand touched his brow, soft words spoke. The pain and nausea subsided. There was nothing save a gentle dimness, no sense of time or pain and when he woke again the ache was less, though his throat and chest felt tight and sore.

The room was unfamiliar, lamps shone on hangings of green and gold, thread-work catching the light in bright flashes. But the faces around him were known; Legolas, Glorfindel, Tindómion. He could feel the anger in the air, see it in the intent eyes that watched him and his voice was hushed as he asked hoarsely:  
''What.. what h-happened?''

He was in a great bed, the coverlets perfumed. Behind Glorfindel's shoulder, the lamplight clawed up an emblem of a rayed sun.

''A hard head and a lot of hair,'' Glorfindel smiled, turning to the others. Elgalad realized from the colors and banners of the room that this must be Glorfindel's own chamber. He tried to remember what had happened. He had been looking for Malthador, to tell him that he need not fear being exiled from Lasgalen...the little glade...the white marble stone of a grave. His eyes opened wide...Malthador had been there, they had fought.

''What was he doing there?'' Tindómion demanded turning to look out of the long window, arms rigidly folded across his chest, as if he deliberately barred anger within himself. ''No, not thou, Elgalad. Malthador.''

''I think he saw Elgalad leave the house, wanted to get him alone somewhere. He must have been up to the glade before.'' Glorfindel slid his arm under Elgalad's shoulders, lifted him so that he could drink, then laid him back. 

''I am sorry, I remember n-now. I trespassed.'' He cleared his throat. ''I wanted to tell M-Malthador that I would speak for him. Baranir said h-he might be banished.''

''Baranir has told me he asked that of you, and he is horrified at what happened." Legolas sat on the edge of the bed. "Hate runs deep in some people. It does not respond to reason and never to kindness. Malthador is under guard now until we leave Imladris.'' Elgalad saw that the Prince was furious, eyes bright-gleaming under long lashes.

"I thought I saw movement on the little path, I was thinking that Malthador w-was too afraid to return. I am sorry. I did not know that...the High K-King was buried there."

Tindómion turned and Elgalad saw the silver eyes were heavy with sorrow.

"He would not mind, Elgalad, he would welcome thee. Thou doth know how to love."

~~~

Vanimórë walked out into the training arena. He did not wear armor for these competitions, only black leather breeches, boots and a vest, supple and severe. His twin scimitars rode on his back, his hair was braided into one long plait.  
Not far away, watching with the cold sneer that seemed indelibly branded on his face, the Mouth stood, gauntleted hand on the hilt of his sword.

''Entertain me,'' Sauron had said to him. ''If thou canst disarm my son, thou canst have him for one night. I may give him to thee anyway.'' His laughter was absorbed by the heavy hangings of the chamber where he sat in the the sharp-brooding intelligence of his thoughts.

His smile broadened and the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr stepped forward, drawing his blade. Massive it was, at the hilt its span wide as a mans hand. He brought it down with a brutal stroke which would have sheared a man from neck to waist had it connected.

Two scimitars formed an X and sparks sprang as the greatsword was caught – caught and held. The muscles on Vanimórë's arms locked, his eyes fixed unblinking on the Mouth's. And then his leg slammed out.

His foot struck the Mouth's armored stomach, and the man staggered back. Vanimórë skimmed smoothly aside, one blade held crossed across his chest, the other trailing. His right hand was the one he lead with, the left for the riposte, although he was fully ambidextrous and could confuse any opponent as in the blinding changes from left to right; an enemy did not know from what angle or height the riposte would come.

The Mouth righted himself, attacked again, and Vanimórë began to turn on his feet indolently at first, then faster, the blades of his swords forming a continual whirring edge, a barrier through which no blow could reach. The screen of razor-edged steel hummed and clashed as the greater blade struck again and again and was foiled. Vanimórë came out of the spin with savage, perfect control, and the scimitars kissed each side of the Mouth's neck.

The hairline cuts wept thin lines of blood. Vanimórë smiled, white and hard as ice. Like a black beacon, Sauron's mind swept over them, and he laughed.

_Thou wilt never best him with that weapon,_ he said to the Mouth with contempt. _Perhaps thou wilt do better with thine other sword._

Tentacles of Power snaked about Vanimórë's mind, and oozed inward, feeling the defiance blaze. From his chamber above, Sauron watched the black head lift, the eyes flash once, before black lashes quenched their violence.  
And then began the struggle against a greater will, which none saw but Sauron and the Mouth, for the Slave was too proud to fight before an audience. It was, in the end, the Dark Lord's link with his mind which defeated him, not physical strength, yet he carried himself as a Prince as he ascended the steps to the somber chambers, where he was chained and spread upon the floor.

Pain knifed into him, red hot and spreading savagely through his lower body. His back arched, his head tossed, not in pleasure but an futile effort to lessen the Mouth's brutal thrusts.  
Through an endless dark tunnel limned with fire, he felt a soul within his own. The gulf was unbridgeable; the love bright, beautiful as spring after an deadly winter. Once, Vanimórë might have wept.

_Elgalad..._

My Lord.

Forget me.

His teeth locked, his face set as a mask. Hot, sour breath fanned his face as the rhythm became harder, more brutal, the Mouth feeding delightedly on both his body and his degradation .

_ Forget me. I can give thee nothing._

I am damned.

... _Meluion..._

~~~~


	53. The Final Warning

  
~ Black thoughts sat upon Tindómion that night. They were at the brink, and he knew of no other balm than this.  
He tilted the harp towards him, softly plucked a gleaming string. At first a gentle ripple sounded, as if a small stream began to flow over crystal, then a deeper note swelled as the music caught with his fire, sweeping, poignant; a storm of rain and mithril-edged lightning.

He closed his eyes, his brow pressed against the harp-wood and he raised it after a moment, looking out over the winter gardens of the House of Elrond.  
And the night was silent.

  
He set the harp upright, brushing his fingers over the pale wood before stepping onto the balcony.  
The air was still, above the stars were cold white flame, one star, low down, pulsing red...Borgil...red...the colour of war...  
He leaned a hand on the balustrade looking east, his eyes eerily bright as if they captured the sheen of the winter stars. But there was nothing of such distance in them, only a fierce defiance.

***

''Istelion, if I chose you, it would imperil the Quest,'' Elrond had said. ''That is why I will not permit Glorfindel to go either. The Dark Lord would sense the both of you.'' His eyes were stern. ''Promise me," he added.

Tindómion's cheeks flushed. He said stiffly.  
''Thou wouldst have me swear it?''

Elrond shook his head almost wearily.  
''I would not have a Fëanorion swear an oath. Promise me as a friend.''

Tindómion stepped down from the balcony, his booted feet soundless on the chill grass, still gazing east, as if his undying hatred for the Dark Lord could pierce the mountains, cross the lands beyond and find their way to Barad-dûr.

_Curse thee forever to the Outer Dark !_

_That cursed Ring..! Damn Isildur ! _  
Aragorn seemed different in temper, but his great test had not yet come.

"Thou doth play like Maglor, and with the same sorrow, this night." Glorfindel crossed the grass to him. In the night, his hair was a pale, glittering mane.

''I am going to break my own Oath, if Sauron reclaims the ring,'' Tindómion whispered. "But I tried.''

''Istelion, thou wert not meant to find him only to slay him.''

Maglor's son clenched his hands and took a breath.

''We swore another Oath together.'' Glorfindel's eyes held the silver. ''To one another. If Sauron triumphs, we must see the people of Imladris safe to the Haven's and delay the hosts of the Dark as long as possible.''

''I will die beside thee with pride, my friend. The time has come. Gil was punished for my acts. It is time for me to stand before Mandos. But I will ensure my death is worth something.'' There was bitter resolve in his words.

Glorfindel's eyes were lambent in the dimness.  
''I know it will be worth something, my friend. Now come, I would hear thee play again.''

Tindómion seated himself on a stone bench, drew the harp into his arms, and a moment later a rich, haunting melody bloomed in the winter night.

''_I burn upon the Hither Shore while Ages fade to gray,  
A strip of stone lies in a garth, it seals my heart away,  
The towers of my lover's realm lie under endless years,  
My love long gone, there is no song,  
Can ease my bitter tears." _

Tindómion looked up and his profile, hard as a carving in alabaster, struck Glorfindel with the ageless recognition he always felt – as if he looked at Maglor, or Fëanor in Tirion, in the Years of the Trees.

***

''I wish you to go to Mithlond, Istelion. Ride back with Galdor.'' Elrond sealed the vellum with wax and glanced up from the great table.

Tindómion inclined his head.

''Glorfindel will go with you,'' Elrond continued, "I would also like to know what happens in the west. Estel and the Hobbits spoke of strangers from the south passing through Bree. Seek Iarwain Ben-adar. But ride first to Mithlond. I want you to see some-one safe to Círdan.''

Tindómion paused as he took the letter.  
"Arwen?" He asked, with a frown. Arwen loved him not at all, and such a journey would be frosty indeed, but he would escort her if it were Elrond's wish.

Elrond shook his head. "Not yet, not unless there is no other way. No, Istelion. Elgalad."

***

**Mirkwood**

The message had come last autumn. One of the raft-Elves who poled the wine to and from Lake Town, handed it to him with a bow.  
''I did not think you journeyed to the lake, Elgalad, I thought you were ever patrolling to the north.''

''I am.'' Elgalad was confused. ''Who gave this t-to thee?''

''No-one," came the blithe reply. "It was in the house where we lodge. There was another note with it, asking it be brought to you when we returned with the next cargo of Dorwinion.''  
Dirdoron had willingly undertaken the task; he saw no reason not to, for the writing was in elegant, antique Sindarin, and a lead-sealed flask of Dorwinion Red Harvest had held it down upon the table – a courteous inducement.

''That was k-kind in thee.'' Elgalad smiled his gratitude, and walked away to read it. His hand trembled a little, and he leaned back against a tree-stem. The writing was familiar. How could it not be? Had he not taught Elgalad how to write? His heart was suddenly a wayward thing in his breast.

_''Meluion, come to Lake Town. Meet me on the north west shore on the night of the full moon. I will find thee. This is very important, too urgent to be expressed in a letter, but if thou canst not come, depart and leave the forest for the Haven's of Mithlond, and there take ship for Aman. My last order to thee, dear one. Ensure that thou doth execute it.''_

Joy burned through Elgalad melded with disbelief, gladness and a veritable storm of love. His face burned as if a kiln door had been opened before him, and his breath came short.

''My lord,'' he whispered, absorbing the writing which seemed to retain the vigor and command of the one who penned it. ''Th-thank Eru thou art alive. I w-will come !''

As it was, he was destined to be late, for on the twentieth day of _Laer,_ the War of the Ring truly began. Mordor's forces simultaneously attacked eastern Gondor and Thranduil's realm, allowing the captured creature Gollum, to escape, and there was battle beneath the trees and on the margins of the forest. Elgalad was second in command of a group of warriors sent northward to hunt some of the fleeing orcs. When the company turned back he offered to scout and Baranir, who lead the Elves agreed.

As he ran silently through the night he felt a collision of sentiments. He was trusted by his captain, yet now he was trying to find one who served Sauron.  
He had always clung to the hope that had he been free, his lord would not have given him up. Had he not cared for Elgalad from childhood, taught him everything? Had he not fought against Sauron's commands?

As Elgalad lived in Lasgalen he learned more of Sauron, from the standpoint, even memories of some of the Elves. To him, it opened another eye, and as his understanding deepened so also did his confusion. Sauron like his once master, Morgoth, was a force of power and darkness. The orcs, of course, were twisted creations of Morgoth, as were the trolls. But his lord was not of them, nor a wraith as the Úlairi. He appeared to have enough freedom under the Dark Lord to stay away from Mordor for all Elgalad's childhood, and his attitude toward even the Nazgûl was contemptuous.  
When he visited Imladris he listened as Glorfindel, Elrond, Tindómion and Legolas discussed what they knew of the strange slave of Sauron.  
_"He asked us to keep him bound in chains, advised us to say nothing before him, told us that Sauron would be able to read his mind," Glorfindel recounted. "At the end, when we found him, he was surrounded by bodies of orcs that he had slain. He would be free, if he could. He is a thrall, and something more, I think."_  
Elgalad had savored every brief word, clung to memories and ever decreasing hope. Until now.

He ran like an deer, scarcely able to believe that he truly might see his lord again. He prayed that he was not too late, for the moon was two nights past full, wan behind a bank of mottled cloud.

He could smell the lake as he approached. Its cold waters were black and windless. Further south, lanterns showed where a fishing fleet from the town hove, casting their nets in the darkness.

His boots soundlessly struck the shingle of the shore, and he paused. His heart was light and high in his breast as he looked around hoping to see a tall figure approaching, but the night yielded nothing. From a thicket of reeds came the deep boom of a bittern. An owl called in the distance.

There was no sign or scent of orcs at least. They had been driven off, no match for the arrows of the Silvan elves, but that odd creature they had been guarding had vanished. Elgalad had seen him once or twice; a wizened gangrel-thing with long hands, a starveling look and the marks of torture upon his body.  
The wood-Elves had felt both pity and repugnance for the thing, although they not known whom or what it was. It seemed a peculiar prisoner for Thranduil to be interested in, Elgalad thought, yet it was apparently important enough for an attack to be launched which enabled the creature to escape.

A tiny breeze ruffled the lake. Elgalad took a breath, savoring all the scents within the night: water, rock, fern, reed, fish.

A hand touched him on the shoulder.

He knew. He remembered the scent of water-mint and lemon-balm, mingled now with something richer, exotic which made him think of silk and spices, hot lands that he had never seen. _Sandalwood._  
Spinning on one foot he threw himself into his lord's arms.

***

Vanimórë had thought that the long years would have set a distance in Elgalad's heart, and after their last encounter had expected fear, distrust at least. He held the Elf, feeling the hardness of the tall body, the hectic pounding of the heart as Elgalad's head nestled against his throat like a bird coming home to roost. The dust of his breath flared Vanimórë's nerves into dark fire. He stepped back, said sternly, ''Thou shouldst have drawn weapon on me.''

''I knew it w-was thee, my lord!'' Elgalad was glowing like a rising moon. ''I have w-waited so l-long! And to kn-know thou art alive...!''

''What in Eru's name is to be done with thee?" Vanimórë sighed. "Still so trusting of me?''

''I w-would always trust th-thee!"

''Then trust me now, Meluion," Vanimórë murmured. "There is not much time. Thou must leave Middle-earth.'' He saw the sweet-tempered mouth set, the head shake.  
''This does not admit of dispute. War has begun.''

''The orcs?'' Elgalad whispered. ''Didst thou l-lead them?''

''No,'' Vanimórë shook his head. ''But they were ordered to divert the attention of the Wood-Elves from their captive.''

''Yes, so the king th-thought. But wh-why?''

''The Dark Lord believes the creature may lead him to something vital to this war. That is all I know. But even if it does not, no land can stand against the might Mordor now controls.'' More gently he said: ''I would not see thee die.''

"I will n-not leave my people, my l-lord,'' Elgalad said softly. "And I h-have said I would never go t-to Aman, save with thee."

''I would never go to Aman, into a cage ! I made my choice.'' He shook Elgalad roughly. "There is no freedom for me unless Sauron is destroyed and even then, when I die, there is only the Void."

In the diffused moonlight the Elf's face showed white as hoarfrost.  
''No,'' he shook his head. "No...!"

''Thou doth not understand!'' Inflexible as granite, Vanimórë folded his arms. It was a gesture familiar to Elgalad, but he had never before seen it for what it was. It was a closing off, a barrier erected against any-one – every-one. Against love.  
''Thou couldst never understand.''

''Then t-tell me! How can I understand if I kn-know nothing?''

''Be silent ! Thou couldst bring a horde of orcs down upon us if any were about. Trust me, we do not have time for this. I tell thee, thou must go.''

''I will n-not leave, my lord. If war c-comes I will fight f-for my king! M-my sword, my b-bow are pledged to Thranduil.''

''I commend thy loyalty.'' Vanimórë was deliberately calm. ''But against this, no valor in Middle-earth will stand.''

''Then I w-will die defending the realm, and...my soul will seek thee,'' Elgalad said with wistful finality. ''But these are m-my people.''

Vanimórë turned away, looked out over the lake. The fishing boats were making their way back to their harbor, and the moon was sinking slowly.

''I believed they would be, or I would not have brought thee here.''

''I would g-give my life for them, my l-lord.''

''And for me? What wouldst thou do for me?'' Vanimórë turned back.

Blood rushed into Elgalad's cheeks. ''Anything !'' His voice trembled. ''Anything !''

''Then leave, and spare me great grief, Meluion.''

''My l-lord...'' tears welled in the gray eyes. ''Do n-not send me from the world! Even if thousands of l-leagues lie between us, I still w-walk the earth that thou d-doth tread.''

The piteousness of the plea sent a thrill of unnameable emotion through Vanimórë. He fought an impulse to strike Elgalad, destroy his innocence and love and walk away, severing the ties that bound them to one another. He needed to demonstrate that such bindings were weak, deserving of nothing but scorn and in the end, death. Elgalad had glimpsed what Vanimórë could be, what he could do. And he still trusted him.  
Loved him.

His hand caught Elgalad a savage backhanded blow across the face, sending him staggering. He caught himself and looked up, his eyes wounded but tearless. There was nothing in his expression but love.

''Oh, _damn thee !_'' Vanimórë exploded, and jerked Elgalad close, feeling the shuddering sobs. The strong arms locked around him and clung tightly.

''Forgive me.'' He felt the heat of the bruised cheek against his neck. ''Thou art so very dear. And Sauron has not forgotten thee. When he conquers he will have thee brought to him, and make me watch thy death.''

He felt Elgalad swallow. ''Then thou m-must end my life. From thee I will t-take it as a gift.''

He moved fast. Vanimórë felt his dagger pulled from the thigh-sheath and Elgalad reversed it, holding it pressed against his heart. His free hand closed on Vanimórë's, drawing both to the haft of the weapon.

_I should do it._ The thought was dead cold. _Give him a quick, clean death, as I did my twin._

His fingers tightened.  
Elgalad took a deep breath, his eyes full of adoration and utterly trusting.  
''I l-love thee.''  
And he smiled.

The dagger clattered over the shingle. Vanimórë's hands slid up over his face, pressed against his closed eyelids for a moment, before they dropped, gripping Elgalad's shoulders.

''I cannot...'' He flung away, loosing a string of oaths.  
_ Mad, I am mad! And he said even that would fail me at the end! _

''Meluion...go. Thou _must._ The attack on Mirkwood is nothing to what will come."

"Then I h-have to warn the K-King," Elgalad said. "When w-will it be? Who will l-lead the attack? Úlairi?"

"No," Vanimórë said. "I will. He will make me take thee to Mordor this time, my dear."

''My l-lord...'' Elgalad whispered. ''I do n-not believe thou w-wouldst hurt m-me, or my k-kin...''

''This time I would have no choice. If I refuse to lead the attack, I will be imprisoned, and then he may indeed send one of the Nazgûl. He means to crush all the Elf realms, Elgalad. And this is personal." Vanimórë's eyes burned in endless, agelong wrath. "He knows I care for thee, he wants me to suffer. I am not permitted to care any-one. If thou art gone, then he has no need to send the Nazgûl here, or me. He will use me elsewhere. Leave, and I will follow thee to the Havens, when I can.''

Elgalad moved forward. ''Will he n-not prevent th-thee?"

Vanimórë shook his head. "No, for he would want me to find thee and in any event, he means to destroy the Havens and stop the Elves leaving Middle-earth.''

"B-but..."

"We do not have time for this ! Promise me thou wilt go, and there may be a chance – for both of us." He was lying perfectly. Only his father could have seen through it.  
The Havens were far away, and it was said that the Elven ships built for that last journey could never founder. Even if Sauron's allies, the Corsairs of Umbar, sailed so far north, it was unlikely they could prevent any ship from Mithlond taking the Straight Road.

''Very w-well, my l-lord. I will g-go, if it will also save my p-people.'' Emotion shook through Elgalad's voice and he threw himself back into Vanimórë's arms. ''And to b-be with thee...! C-Come soon !''

''The journey is long, Meluion.'' Vanimórë's fingers smoothed the high cheekbones. ''Thou must prepare soon, for there is little time.''

Gentling under the caresses, Elgalad nodded. He was eddying into the calmer backwaters of his storm of emotion. Later he would think more deeply, but he knew he had to go. If this was what must be done, he would do it – for his Lord and for Mirkwood.

***

Elgalad stood before Thranduil and Legolas, the betraying flush burning on his cheekbones as they looked at him and then at one another.

"He said he would attack us?" The king rose from his seat.

"Yes, sire. In th-the spring."

Legolas turned to his father. "_Adar,_ I have spoken to those who saw this strange _Golodh_ in battle in the Last Alliance. Glorfindel would tell you – we do _not_ want this one leading a force against us."

Elgalad plucked at the neck of his tunic as Thranduil said:  
"In a battle under the trees, Legolas, the advantage is always going to be with us."

"As it was in Doriath?"

"No-one expected that attack, and Doriath was not Mirkwood."

"We are still going to lose many of our people, and we lost enough at the battle of Five Armies." The Prince faced his father eye to eye, but both turned as Elgalad said:  
"He out-outfaced one of the N-Nazgûl. I saw h-him, I was there. Before h-he brought me here, he tried to m-make me take refuge in L-Lothlórien..." he hesitated. "I followed h-him and was taken to Dol Guldur."

They stared at him in absolute silence.

"My l-lord was supposed to t-take me to Mordor, and resisted. They manacled b-both of us, and l-lead us into Rhovannion. He b-broke free of h-his fetters, killed the orcs and f-faced one of the N-Nazgûl. He k-kills very w-well."

Thranduil took a long breath, looked back at his son wordlessly.

"If you go, he says he will not be chosen to lead the attack?" Legolas asked.

"That is w-what he said," Elgalad affirmed. "H-he cares for me, and Sauron w-would make him watch me d-die."

"Father, he _has_ to go from Mirkwood, for the sake of our people, but also for his own sake."

Thranduil raised his hand and slammed it down on the great desk, then covered his eyes and said:  
"Legolas, take him with you to Imladris."

The Prince bent his head in assent.  
"Elgalad, prepare to leave. I am to take messages to Elrond. You will come with me." ~

~~~


	54. Before The Gulf Of Doom

  
~ "He lied," Glorfindel stated.

Legolas set down the wine goblet and tipped back his head with a sigh.  
"Yes, I thought so too, after thinking of what you told me of him."

"If it were so easy to escape Sauron he would have done so before. He wants Elgalad gone from Middle-earth."

"Then he must be very sure that Sauron will triumph, with or without the Ring."

Glorfindel nodded.  
"It would seem that way. He also gave us warning."

"He knew Elgalad would not simply leave Mirkwood. He knew he would tell us. " Legolas rose lithely. "Unless Sauron ordered him to and bluffs us."

"It is a possibility," Glorfindel agreed, watching him with pleasure. "But I cannot see what Sauron would gain from it. I think the thrall acted alone, and will be punished for it. I saw how he was tortured when he was our prisoner. And still he defied his master. Meeting Elgalad was another act of defiance."

Legolas looked at him with curiosity. "Would you trust him, Glorfindel? He has been Sauron's slave for so long. Yet he saved my life, and seems to care for Elgalad."

Glorfindel tapped his winecup. "I would not trust him with a _lover_..." he paused for a long moment and the flames hissed in the brazier. "But perhaps with my life. According to Elgalad he would have taken thee away from Mirkwood had his conscience not interfered."

"Yes, and he also told Elgalad that I would have hated him." Legolas' cheeks colored. "And that is true. He, a slave himself, would have made me a slave also in some alien land. I would thank him for his conscience."

"Perhaps thou wouldst have forgotten the land and all else but him," Glorfindel's smile turned a touch wicked and he thought.  
_ He made me forget for a time, anger and grief and the war, the smell of death and ash and Orodruin's fume. And I...needed to give him something..._

He saw the light flash in Legolas' eyes and laughed, flung up a hand. "I am jesting. Perhaps. But yes, I trust what he told Elgalad."

"Then you think the Havens are in danger?"

"When Sauron came into Eregion he used the Gap of Rohan. He would have to do the same again unless he sent an army north." Glorfindel turned to a great map on the wall and traced a finger from Mordor north past the Iron Hills and the Grey Mountains, west to Carn Dûm, and down. "I doubt he would do that, it is a hard way and long. No, I think he will throw his forces at Gondor and then there is Saruman in Isenguard. If Sauron comes through the Gap, Rohan and Gondor both will have fallen, and he will march on the Havens and Imladris."

Legolas looked out into the dusk.  
"What does Elrond say?"

"That Elgalad should be escorted to Mithlond and Círdan warned to make ready."

"Elgalad will not leave. I would not."

"No," Glorfindel agreed. "and it would be cruel to force him. But unless Sauron is defeated and the One Ring destroyed, Vanimórë is not free and will ever be a danger to Elgalad."

"How in Arda do you know his name?" Legolas demanded. Glorfindel shrugged.  
"I do not, I called him that once and he laughed."

"Beautiful Darkness?"

"Yes. It fits him...rather well."

~~~

The winter roar of the river muffled their horses hoof beats as they departed, fading into shadow.

~~~

They had skirted Bree under Bree Hill on the outward journey, riding through the land between the Hills of Evendim and the White Downs. The East-West road had been empty.

Steep, green hills fell somberly into the Gulf of Lhun. The waters of the mighty firth were as grey as dull steel under a bleak sky, the sharp scent of the brine slapped in their faces, and the riders paused as they looked out, before riding down into Mithlond.

Lindon was as familiar to Tindómion as the lines on his palm, He knew Harlindon, Forlindon, Mithlond, and Círdan had known him since his birth. The Shipwright greeted them courteously and asked of Fanari, whom he had also known, carrying her to the Isle of Balar after the sack of the Havens of Sirion.

~~

''He still dreams?'' Círdan asked on the first evening, when the Fëanorion was with Elgalad.

"Yes," Glorfindel answered.

''He will never find him now, not on Middle Earth. If he is even alive."

''He is prepared for that. But I believe Maglor lives. Despite the hate within his son, their souls are bound together.''

Beyond the glazed window the wind howled like a lost soul searching for a way in. Círdan looked at Glorfindel and a sigh moved the long beard which fell to his breast.  
"It is a cruel fate, despite his acts."

"There is nothing for him in Aman," Glorfindel came to his feet. "Just as there is nothing for me unless I am penitent. And I will not repent."

Out in the night, Tindómion played his harp into the salt-laden wind with a passion and sorrow which might have arisen out of the deeps of time, or been an echo of something long forgotten and lost.  
Clouds raced overhead, as if the Lords of the West sent the gale off Belegaer in warning and in wrath.

''_Adar!_'' he cried. ''What is it that clouds my vision? Where art thou? Hear my voice !''  
But the sea and the wind answered him nothing.

Elgalad lifted his hand as the Noldor rode away. The wind scattered his hair roughly, cast it over his face and he drew it aside. Beside him, Círdan was silent. He had seen so many Elves come to the Havens to depart Middle-earth. Some remained for hundreds of years before the call into the West became too great.

But this Elf, whose profile was as pure as if carved from pearl against the grey sea, did not wish to leave.  
He was waiting.

***

~ In the hard years of the Second Age, pioneers of men had migrated northward from the White Mountains, some settling in Dunland, and some pressing on yet further until they came to a wooded hill nigh to the ancient Barrow Downs, and there they founded Bree. The men were short, brown haired and broad and they maintained a curious tradition of taking their names from plants, such as Butterbur, and Appledore.  
Although maintaining their independence when Arnor was founded, Bree, due to it's position on the North-South road fell within that Kingdoms boundaries, and Bree became subject to the rule of the Dúnedain.

The Breelanders were still there when the three northern kingdoms of Rhudaur, Cardolan and Arthedain fell, and in all Middle Earth it was the only place where Hobbits and Men dwelt together. Rangers at times came here to the old inn, The Prancing Pony, run by the Butterbur family almost from the settlement. But it was exceeding rare for Elves to be seen there.

The two Elves who dismounted lightly from their pale horses wore deeply cowled hoods, but so tall were they, their carriages so noble, that their entrance into the inn could not go unremarked. A scent of pipeweed assailed them, unwashed bodies, ale, hot meat. A murmur of conversation was abruptly truncated as the two tall figures stepped inside.

The innkeep, Barliman Butterbur, bustled over, wiping his hands on his apron and summing up their attire with a practiced eye.  
''Lords?'' These were no wandering rogues. The stuff of the cloaks was fine, weather-worthy, yet with the glint of gold thread at the hems, and their boots were of the finest doeskin, worked soft as butter.

''A corner table, and two rooms, good-man,'' one of them spoke. ''Hot cyser, bread, fruit, and meat.''

The voice struck upon the ears with a strange, deep, complexity, a beauty to it which was utterly alien to the rounded burr of the region.

Tindómion, who retained a distrust and dislike of mortals since the Last Alliance, would as lief have gone to a room, and supped there, but they were passing through Bree to observe it and take note of strangers there. His hand dropped to his sword-hilt as he followed the uncharacteristically quiet Butterbur to a table which, since it was set back from the fires, was empty, but provided a view of the long common-room. The innkeeper noticed that casual gesture and that the slender hand was also encased in silken leather, tailored perfectly to the shape of the long fingers.

''You are passing through, lords?'' He inquired as he set down a flagon of cyser.

''Yes,'' Glorfindel poured. ''Thank you.'' It was a courteous dismissal, but Butterbur was the owner of the inn and there had been trouble here not long ago.

''Beggin' your pardon Lords, but I would feel a mite easier, if them swords were to remain in their sheaths,'' he muttered, and caught the flash of a very white smile.

''Goodman, we are warriors, but rest assured, not villains, we are friends to Gandalf, I believe you know him.''

''Ah...'' Butterbur's face cleared a little. He was also not as obtuse as he might appear and was beginning to realize what these lordly strangers might be. ''Well, if so, you are welcome, and just give a shout if you need anything. I will have your rooms prepared, and lead you to them when you are ready.''

At a call from further in the room, he turned and bustled off, leaving the Elves alone.

''A worthy man, so Mithrandir** says,'' Glorfindel murmured as he took a sip of the hot drink.

''No doubt,'' Tindómion replied, stripping off his gloves "Glorfindel..? "

"I know. It would not surprise me to see Elgalad walk in the door. He is going to realize very soon that his lord has no intention of meeting him at the Havens."

As the inn began to empty for the night, the Elves followed Butterbur up the stairs to comfortable room. A ruddy, curly-haired halfling, who the inn-keep addressed as Nob, carried steaming coppers of water in and placed them for washing. He then murmured to Barliman, that he would ''Walk Fern home,'' after she finished in the kitchens.

''Be careful, Nob,'' Butterbur warned, as the patter of hobbit feet vanished along the hallway. " 'Tis not as safe as it once was." He followed the Hobbit, leaving a jug of hot wine.

''Come,'' Glorfindel said, "Let us see what troubles Bree. I mislike the look of some of the guests tonight and if many are coming up the Greenway, the situation in the south must be grave."  
He drew back the shutters on the windows and they dropped, landing silently as cats.

This was a community where many people went to bed with the sun, rising early to tend to their coppicing, planting and livestock; it was pastoral, timed to the seasons and weather and so Bree was dark, save for one or two lights of the inn softly gleaming behind them. It was a crisp winter night, the stars icy jewels cast onto a dark blanket, and the Elves made no sound to break the silence. The old houses climbing the slopes of Bree Hill huddled under the measureless sky. Tindómion caught the glitter in Glorfindel's eyes, the unspoken but clear thought as he turned his head and passed down a winding street which climbed steadily. The houses of the ''Big Folk'' petered out in an area of small allotments. Smaller Hobbit dwellings clustered above.

They made no sound but something else disturbed the chill-locked night: deep voices, and then a higher one, alarmed and angry. A woman cried out sharply.  
The Elves ran silently past small gardens planted with winter greens, pens for fowl and sheds. The moon patched the path white and the figures on it were black, save where the moonlight caught the gleam of a blade.

There were four men, one struggling with a small figure, one with an arm wrapped around another Hobbit with a mop of long curls. A blow sent Nob flying back, blood showing black on his face, but he struggled up again, game as a fighting cock. A sword came out.

''Stay back, little 'un, or I'll have your guts on this!''

''Spit 'im before he calls for help, fool!''

From out of the dark, Glorfindel said: ''What is this?''

The men wheeled, one made a quick sign against evil, the others gripped their weapons more tightly. Their faces, scarred, twisted by the thought of violence and many acts of it, looked as wicked as orcs.

'' Piss off, this aint naught to do with ye !''

''Drenn, they're...''

A gobbet of spit landed close to Tindómion's booted feet.  
"I see 'em! You back off now, back off...or I'll see if the color of your blood is red as a proper Man's.''

''I know that yours,'' A dagger hilt sprouted from the throat of the man who held the hobbit-lass. For a moment, the ruffian looked only surprised. Then one hand rose and he opened his mouth. Blood ran from it, he he coughed and crumpled. Nob, his round eyes wide, rushed in and pulled Fern away. "is red also." The Fëanorion finished even as the remaining men charged.

They met a storm of steel. The leader's blade clanged against Glorfindel's, and his eyes bulged as the impact jarred up his arm and numbed it. Surprise was the last thing he experienced as the disengage blurred the air and Sarambar took him through the heart.  
There was a clatter as a hurled dagger met Gurthdur and whined away. The outlaw was pressed back and back again as Glorfindel engaged him, contemptuously slamming his sword aside. The reverse stroke took his neck from his body. Tindomion's left hand withdrew his dirk and drove it into his groin. Blood fountained from the great vein.

The two hobbits watched, struck into horrified stillness as he died, their faces upturned and white.

''Do not fear,'' Glorfindel turned. ''Where is thy home? Let us escort thee.''

But the fight had been heard. The sound of blades was almost unknown in the Breeland. Shutters had been cautiously opened, and now men came out, hastily pulling on breeches, converging on group. They were shocked and wary of the two tall figures until the Hobbits breathlessly poured out the story .

''Vagrant scum,'' a brawny man growled and spat at the bodies. ''There's been things gone missing here since they arrived, but none seen them at it, and we're not skilled with blades. These would knife you soon as look at you. Nob, Fern, are you all right?''

The Hobbits nodded emphatically. This was like an old tale come to life, for them, danger and then rescue by folk out of legend.

''Dost thou come back to the inn, Nob?'' Tindómion asked, once Fern had been gathered into the bosom of her large family.

''Ay, sir I will, I must tell this to Master Butterbur, although I misdoubt the news will be before me! I never saw anything like it! '' Nob's eyes shone with relief and excitement, and Tindómion recalled some of Mithrandir's observations on Hobbits: that they were tougher than they looked, could endure much hardship and fear, and still spring back from it.

''I am sorry that such violence was needful; we have heard from the Rangers that there have been unwelcome strangers in Bree.'' Glorfindel started down the road, matching his long strides to Nob's short ones. ''Bree and the other villages should be more careful about who they let through the gates.''

''You're right sir, and so many have been saying, but those good-for-naughts had coin – ill gotten I wager!'' Nob's round cheeks flushed with the, sickening thought of his Fern being abused by the men and he shook his head, sniffed hard, then went on, ''You are Elves aren't you, sirs, I never saw any before, but I have heard stories, Fern loves stories of the Elves.''

Tindómion felt a reluctant smile form on his mouth as his eyes met Glorfindel's.  
''Yes, we are Elves.''

~~~

Glorfindel and Tindómion sought to leave Bree early and unremarked, but Nob was at their door with the sunrise carrying hot water, mulled cyser, warm bread and cold roast fowl. He looked as if he had not slept, thought Tindómion.

"Barly said as you were leaving at sunup, sirs, but we wanted to see you off, Fern and I, and thank you," he explained as he set out food. His words summoned Fern from the doorway where she was shyly peeking in. Glorfindel beckoned and she came to Nob's side with a blush and curtsy.

"We are to be wed in the spring," Nob said, taking her hand. "And how I can thank the both of ye, I don't know."

Glorfindel and Tindómion looked down at them from their tall height and both smiled. On an impulse the Fëanorion drew a brooch pin from his cloak. It had been his mother's and showed the insignia of the Pillar and the Tower of Snow. The pretty little hobbit-maid would wear something that had come from lost Gondolin, and why not? Fanari would approve. Leaning down, he in inserted it through the shoulder of Fern's gown.

''This was made for an Elf-maid, long ago," he told her. "She would like it to be worn by another fair maiden.''

As they left, the Hobbits staring after them, Glorfindel said:  
"She would like it very much, but had it been thy father's brooch, I would know that thy hopes were dead."

"They are." There was sorrow in Tindómion's voice. "They are dead, my friend. We are at the very edge of doom and I...I have failed him." ~

~~~


	55. Memories Of Fire

  
~ The wind changed. The great white ships pulled at their mooring chains. The sea tossed its restlessness into foam, and the louring clouds were a dull lid that pressed down the spirit.

Elgalad walked from Círdan's house, climbing above the white quays and villas until the gulf opened before him. After one long look at the swell and muscle of the waters, he turned away and stared east along the road waiting for one figure to appear, riding or walking with that long, catlike stride.

Day after day he watched, and grey dawn and dusk became indistinguishable. The years seemed frozen as the insects he had seen locked in amber. He had lived balanced on a narrow ledge of hope, eyes fixed ahead, not daring to look at the chasms each side and waiting as he waited now, for the long road of his life to converge with his Lord's again. He had laughed and wept and felt love for others but lived poised, holding himself carefully against fear, against the hard anvil of memory.

_ He is not coming. _

_ He cannot come, save with an army at his back. _

_ He lied to me, but I so longed for it to be true, that I believed him..._

_ What am I doing here, away from my people when there will be war? _

Night had come down as he stood in thought. Rough darkness sluiced past him, moonless, starless. Behind him, the sea-roar pounded against the cliffs. He thought he heard harping, and then there was nothing except the wind and the night.

Tears were like ice on his cheeks. He knew why he was here. He was, frankly, a danger. He thought of the strange atmosphere in Imladris, the visitors, Hobbits, tall Men from Gondor, Dwarves from Erebor. He had thought it a war council, but if it was, he was excluded. They all knew that his lord could touch his mind, and it would be foolish for him to know too much.

~~~

_"Promise me that is news of war comes, you will leave."_

Elgalad looked into the fierce eyes for long heartbeats and whispered: "I c-cannot promise, Legolas. I do not wish to flee, I just want..."

"You are not fleeing. You have to go to the Havens, for yourself, and all of us, and perhaps for him, also." Legolas drew him close, kissing his cheek.

"Do n-not ask me to swear."

He felt Legolas sigh against his hair.  
"I will not. But do not do anything foolhardy, Meluion. If the One wills it, I will see you again."

~~~

_ My lord will not come. There will be war, and they will try and make me take ship._

That last thought spurred him. He imagined watching the land recede, diving into the grey sea, striking out to the shore...but it must not come to that. He had a duty as one of the free peoples of Middle-earth, to stand against Sauron.

He was silent as he returned to his room, silent as he shouldered his harness, a pack and slipped to the stables. The horse nickered a quiet greeting, and he ran a hand down the bone of it's face, hushing it as he cinched the headstall and lead it out into the ward, which echoed with the clap of shod-hooves on stone. He hoped this would go unremarked. Travelers might come to Mithlond night or day, but he was tense as he urged Suldal to a trot.

No-one called his name, but from a window in his house, the Shipwright nodded to himself. He closed his eyes.

_ He will never sail the Straight Road. His soul is bound to Middle-earth_

~~~

~ There was snow coming. Both Elves could sense it, hear it in the rough winds, see it in the iron grey sky, smell it and taste it in the metallic, dusty tang which lay on the tongue.

The Barrow Downs seemed stripped bare by the wind. To their left, the dull hills mounted, seemingly asleep, protesting that the broken stones, the green mounds, held no secret, hid nothing. Yet both Elves felt the darkness which emanated from the place.

The downs undulated southward with the Old Forest abutting their western flank. Neither Glorfindel nor Tindómion needed any warning to ride on the western side of such burial mounds they passed. But there was no fear in them, only a long knowledge. Halting in the biting wind which shredded their hair like torn war banners, they found one barrow laid bare. The stones were fallen and, glinting dully under the sky, lay ancient treasures no living Man would dare to touch. 

Before the Atanatari, the fathers of men, had ever crossed the Ered Luin into Beleriand, these places had been cairns of the dead, but it was not until evil spread from Angmar that the bones stirred in the mounds.

In the descending dusk, Glorfindel's aura glowed, Anor rising against the darkness; Tindómion's eyes burned into hot silver. They both remembered the wars in this now desolate land. If one followed the Greenway, the old North-South road, one would come upon a place Men now called Deadmen's Dike. Once it had been Fornost Erain, the chief city of Arthedain. In the year 1975, after the loss of the Kingdom, a great fleet had sailed into Mithlond, from Gondor. They met the Elves of Lindon and the remnant of the Dúnedain, and Elrond sent a force out from Imladris under Glorfindel's command. On the plains near Lake Nenuial, they clashed with the armies of Angmar, and defeated them utterly. Tindómion had ridden with Glorfindel, and seen the Witchking flee into the falling dark toward Carn Dûm. Earnur, the Gondorian General and Glorfindel pressed close behind him, harrying him and the Chief of the Nazgûl vanished thereafter for many long years.

But the Wraith Lord never forgot. Years later, when Earnur became King of Gondor, the Witch King sent forth a challenge. It was refused, but again he challenged the King after seven years passed, and this time Earnur rode to Minas Morgul. What befell was never known, but the line of the Kings of Gondor was broken.

_Undómë. _ Dusk in winter. A dead wind turning toward the east, a wind at the ending of all things, at the ending of the world.

''Come.'' Glorfindel touched his heels to Asfaloth and they passed the opened barrow without looking back.

The home of Tom Bombadil lay under the slope of the downs; a comforting place, with a tended garden as spruce and tidy as any Hobbit's. A warm light gleamed through the shutters. To the side of the house a barn did service as a stable, and the Elves lead their horses into its shelter. There was sweet-smelling hay, water from a well, and after tending to their mounts they walked to the door of the cottage which now stood open.

Tom might seem a comical figure, but only to those who did not know or suspect his origin. His Elven name meant _oldest and fatherless,_ and so the two Noldor greeted he and his lady, Goldberry with respect. They were welcomed, and presently sat down to share a meal. After, Tindómion played for them.

The wind moaned about the house, the lamps hissing in cheerful defiance of the the hollow, mournful sound. Goldberry sat as if upon a throne, yellow hair gleaming. Toms head dipped a little as if he nodded like an old gammer toward sleep, but then a bright, alert eye opened on Tindómion, and he sang:

'' _O, where does he wander, in sun or in shadow,  
By wild northern seashore, in salty firth meadow,  
The son of the fëa who burned to his ending,  
Will one ever find him, before the worlds mending?_

Tindómion came to his feet, fingers tight against the harp strings, silver eyes flaming. He quivered like one of the vibrating strings.  
''Wouldst thou mock me?''

''He does not,'' Goldberry said. ''Peace, son of Maglor. It is both a riddle and an answer.''

''I have searched for him.'' Tindómion's voice quietened. He walked to one of the windows, and his face reflected back at him from the dark. His eyes were coins, his hair black in the shadows. He thought the face looked back at him with torment and appeal. His fingers touched the cold glass.  
_ Adar? _

''We have both searched,'' Glorfindel murmured. ''And now the time comes fast upon us. Dost thou truly know anything Ben-Adar?"

''What would old Tom know of the lands where the Great Sea washes, Reborn One?'' Tom arched a thick brow. ''But pine I smell and snow, and silver birches graceful as my lady when she dances.''

''The north. He is still here, and there is no time.'' Tindómion strode from the house and and stood in the rough caress of the deep winter wind.

****

~ The snow came to meet them, drawing a white veil down from the Towers of Mist. The winds died and the first flakes fell in silence under a sky the colour of ash. The flakes, large as coins, clung for a moment to cloak and hair, before dissolving into the wondrous and intricate shapes of their secret inner structures.

The snow transformed, softened in sweeping silence; ridge, tree, rock given soft contours.  
On the fourth night the fall ceased. The stars flamed in chill brilliance, and at dawn the sun rose crimson, sending gledes of white-gold flaring across the world. The mountains blazed white against the winter sky.  
The last snowfall of the winter before the changing of the world.

***

The Company of the Ring departed in secrecy and silence before dawn. Only Elrond, his sons, Glorfindel and Tindómion bade them farewell in the chill darkness. They embraced Legolas tightly and Glorfindel said:  
"Thou wilt come back."

"Is that prophecy, Golden One?" the prince murmured.

"It is a command."

Wordlessly they watched the companions vanish in the gloom. Above the mountains, hanging low and ominous over the valley, Borgil pulsed in warning, ember-red.

***

Tindómion stirred honey into the steaming wine, crumbled ginger, and poured the spiced brew into two cups. Glorfindel stood leaning on the balcony looking south. His knuckles were white on the polished wood. All that morning he had been distant and mute. They had gone to the training grounds and sparred until both were hot and sleek with sweat in the cold air. 

''Here, drink. Perhaps – "  
Tindómion never finished his sentence. He saw Glorfindel startle as if a whip had fallen across his back, and went to him, gripped the wide shoulders. There was fire in the ice-blue eyes, a fair city burning...

''Mithrandir.''

***

Glorfindel was at Cristhorn, that dreadful pass, a precipice walling it on one side, and on the other a drop into a chasm. As the Balrog stepped onto the path, ember-darkness casting dread and defeat before it, he set his teeth. Sarambar was black with orc blood and he had lost many of his House, his king, his folk, and friends. Gondolin lay in smoking ruin. So few had survived, but they must escape, there were children, Idril, gallant and lovely, valiant Tuor, Eärendil, Fanari, his friend, whose House had all perished this day.

''Go,'' he said, his voice firm, without fear. What more was there to fear?  
He felt the heat of the Balrog gust toward him as he stepped forward.

''_Meet me, Slave of Morgoth!_''

He had seen how Ecthelion had died. Unable to wield his sword with left or right hand, his lover had pierced the creature with the spike of his helm, wrapping his legs about it, so that both fell into the Fountain of the King. And he knew how the Balrogs used their whips to pin a warrior's arms to his side. It was how Gothmog had slain Fingon and Fëanor.

_I must be close! _

From behind him, he heard a voice cry: ''Glorfindel !''

_So much sorrow. This is my death day, and I will send this spawn of fire into the Void._  
And then his call rang like a trumpet against the stone:  
''_For Gondolin. For the House of the Golden Flower!_ '' And he took one leap forward.

Ai, the demon was strong. Yet each stroke of its sword he met with his own, and he did not feel its thong as it flashed out.

_That damned whip..._

He leaped forward, a figure of power and beauty in blooded armor damascened with gold, his aura glowing brighter and brighter as his soul accepted his death.  
And he brought down his sword. It hewed at the Balrog's arm, and a gout of ichor fountained. The demon bellowed, forearm and whip tumbled into the chasm. Spinning aside Glorfindel felt the other burning hand grasp his hair. He thought of his brother dying weaponless in darkness...

_Closer... _ He let the hand pull him. And there was pain which he had never known before...Burning...

He drew his dirk with his left hand, and drove it in.

He did not feel the sensation of the fall, only the heat of searing ichor, flame around him, eyes melted by the Balrog's scream, skin and hair charring. His only thought was to grip the hilt of the dagger even as his flesh bubbled under the gauntlet. The blade remained rammed deep within the demon's body...and at the last, he saw a face who had died before the sun rose, died by the blades and whips of Balrogs, died in fire as he had lived in fire, who had touched Glorfindel and changed him forever. Fëanor's eyes were the Silmarilli as they looked into his from the Everlasting Dark...He smiled with pride, with love.

Then the Lord of the Golden Flower and the Balrog, close as lovers, struck the bottom of the chasm together....

***

It was Mithrandir who fell, enwrapped in fire, Turgon's great sword Glamdring shining like ice, falling, falling...and then darkness.

''Balrog.''

He broke out of the vision to see Tindómion, Elrond, Elladan and Elrohir grouped around him.

''Where?'' Elrond demanded. On his finger, Vilya throbbed.

''Moria.'' Glorfindel closed his eyes, quenching the fiery flickers in them. "He fell with it."

Elrond bowed his head. Sorrow and despair flooded their hearts; all knew that the Istar was more mighty than many deemed, seeing only an old man, bent, and cloaked. And what hope was there for the Quest without his guidance?

***

The winter dusk came early. Tindomion went out onto the long balcony, listening to the murmur of the falls, another layer of darkness added to that which lay on his heart. Lost in his own thoughts, he whipped around as a hand touched him on the shoulder, stared into Glorfindel's eyes. They burned like gems. 

"He is not dead."

''Mithrandir?'' Tindomion exclaimed. "Thou canst feel him?"

"I feel the mark his soul leaves on the world." Glorfindel was a torch in the gloom.

''What does Elrond say?''

''He feels it also. Something has happened, but Mithrandir did not die."

The Fëanorion let out a breath.  
"Then he met a Balrog and bested it?"  
He marveled and he was not sure why he suddenly felt as if some new hope had arisen from the ash of the demon's fire. As they looked at one another, the emotion found its way into brief smiles.

"Is it hope?" he asked.

"A little hope," Glorfindel said. "Yes, Istelion. And we need it." ~

~~~


	56. Burning Heartsong

 

He woke from a dream of fire and pain to the stinging burn in his right hand. As he sat up he opened his fingers which had been locked into a fist. Often he expected to see it running red with blood, but his was not the hand which had held the Silmaril and thrown it into the sea in despair. He was not his father.

He bowed his head, rubbed his palm against the coverlets reflexively, waiting for the phantom sensation to subside. The door to the balcony swung open quietly, letting in a shiver of cold air. He looked up.

"I heard thee cry out." Glorfindel came to the bed. "Istelion. We are sworn to defend Imladris if matters go ill. Thou canst not leave, but it is time for thee to make thy peace with Maglor."

"Peace...?" Tindómion pushed back the coverlet and rose. "He slew his own kin, he begot me in violence – did not even recognize my mother, and lusted after his own father." He enumerated Maglor's offenses in a flat voice as if he were gathering evidence for a trial.

"Nevertheless, Maglor has touched thee, given thee his life in dream, and still thou wouldst deny him entrance to thy heart? Thou canst reach him." Glorfindel laid a hand on Tindómion's breast. "Through the link between thy souls. And if not now, then perhaps never."

"I know."

"We have not the armies we had even during the wars against Angmar. In the event that Sauron triumphs it is likely that we will die here."

"Yes." There was no fear in the words, only a weary acceptance.

"The time is now, Tindómion Maglorion."

"I wanted to slay him. But if I die he is the last, and alone and I...fear for him."

Glorfindel said gently: "And thou hast always loved him."

The silver eyes shattered like glass. They held ages of longing, of hate and love, the need to find the one whose blood he bore, whose dreams he dreamed. He knew Maglor, he could understand him and had always feared he might find him only to kill him.

"Fanari forgave him even as he raped her. Now it is for thee to give thy soul ease and his – let him feel thee, Istelion."

Tindómion picked up his lap-harp, walked out onto the balcony and looked west. His profile was his father's, his grandfather's. Glorfindel watched as he closed his eyes, drew in a breath. Perhaps he had to come to the brink before his heart opened.

_Hear me, father, for we come to the bitterest end. Hear me, feel me, know me! **Know thy son !** _

The notes wept from under his fingers, an outpouring from his heart, crumbling the hatred in a willful surrender to love. The music absorbed his yearning, his sorrow, even as those emotions became the notes he played, each indivisible from the other; a soul reaching to a soul on the wings of music. Through the night, through the aether, the mind-song and heart-song flew, across the wild leagues of Middle Earth. It passed over wood and mountain, marsh and meadow, to touch the margin of the land where Belegaer cast itself on rocky shores and the west wind sighed in the silver birches. There were no words. The words a soul speaks cannot be vocalized. Passionate as prayer they flowed from the harp, into the night, bringing Elrond and his sons from their rooms, Tindómion's mother from her chamber. She leaned against the baluster, pressed one hand to her mouth.

Starlight caught at the tears on Tindómion's cheeks. His burning, weary soul was breaking open, spilling emotion like blood.

And very far away, an Elf turned his head toward the east, the salt-laden air billowing the great black mane of hair across a white face. The sea sighed restlessly, but there was no other sound save that and the moan of the wind over the surf.

His hands reached for his harp and a flurry of notes lifted into the wind, his fingers mirroring another's. Images flashed through Maglor's mind like pieces of a broken mirror.

_ A green and gold spring, blossom thick as snow..._

A girl-child garlanded with flowers smiling up at him...

A cloak brooch glittering with chips of precious stones, the insignia of Fëanor overlaid by a harp. The little maiden smiling shyly as he pinned it to her cloak...

Blood and violence as Dior, Thingol's heir, his wife and loyal people fell before the bitter-edged Fëanorion swords...

The Havens of Sirion burning, young twins crying as he drove himself into the body of a woman...

A tall, armored man with a mane of bronze hair, weeping over the body of a dead king...

Like the breaking of a wave, Maglor's mind was suddenly filled with him, tall and beautiful, eyes a silver blaze in a face which was startlingly like Fëanor's. Long fingers plucked strings and from them spilled music to make a stone weep.

That countenance, fierce, splendid, all the fire of the soul shining like lamplight through the flesh; those eyes...ardent silver as his own.

His heart missed one beat, and then with a slam like a fist, thumped again. His lips parted as if he would speak, but only a shaken breath passed through them.

**Behold thy son. **  
It sounded like a mighty voice out of the night which passed through his soul and left him shaking. But whether it was truly there, or in his fevered imagination, Maglor did not know.

_ A son..? No, she would have died of such usage...I am mad, doomed and damned..!_

My flesh, my bone, my spirit...

He was afraid to hope. The stirring of emotion within his heart, the quickening of his pulse, was like pain; long dormant feelings flexed as frozen flesh waking to warmth.  
He was more soul now than body, hardly felt the cold of winter or the sun of summer. His mind existed in the past. He lived in memories, and all of them ended in fire, in anguish, and some in the wrath that kept him alive.

He had often cried out to Ilúvatar, wondering why he still lived. Was it as simple as fear? Was he afraid that his soul would pass into the Void?  
_Oathbreaker, Kinslayer, rapist..._  
Was this existance the punishment for his offenses? He did not live. Living held vitality. The only vitality in him now was formed of hate. He drifted through days, nights, years centuries, and scarce noticed them.

***

''Istelion.''

The voice came to him as through gulfs of time and distance, and the world settled into place around him. In the grey of pre-dawn, Glorfindel's aura was sun-gold and the last stars formed a coronal for his head before they sank into the sky.

''Drink.'' He closed Tindómion's fingers around the winecup.

That had been a bitter, burning enchantment. It was more than music, it had been the sound of a soul. Those silver-grey eyes still looked unearthly with the debouchment of his grief, his anger – and his love.

Fanari still stood upon the balcony, as if the music had honed her into marble. Tears sheened her face.

Tindómion's face was so much his father's then that Glorfindel imagined that he looked at Maglor. He lifted the rim of the cup against the stern mouth.

''Drink.'' He watched as the Fëanorion drained the wine. There was something in his eyes Glorfindel had never seen before; somewhere within his soul a tender scar had ripped open to allow what festered under it to be purged.

''Come within. Rest.'' He laid an arm about the wide shoulders and Tindómion did not resist as he was lead into his chambers. He sank back against the settle's cushions, still unspeaking, his eyes gradually glazing with sleep.

Silently his mother crossed the chamber to him. Her fingers hovered above the still-carven face before they lightly touched his hair and she turned away. She had not gone to him whilst he played, though the music pierced her heart harder and sharper than any blade, pushing tears up into her throat.

It was not she that he needed. Love him as she did, there was no comfort she could offer.  
A dawn breeze drew its fingers through her hair, dried the tears on her cheeks, its scent was vivid with the emergence of spring: green shoots, moving sap.

She said, on a breath, although it did not need to be asked, but she required Glorfindel's answer:  
''He touched him...did he not?''

"Yes. he touched him.''

She nodded.  
''He had to believe the end was here, that he would die, before he could release the bonds he set on his soul.''

"He had to abdicate his pride," Glorfindel agreed. "Not an easy thing. In surrendering to love, he touched his father for the first time.''

''Perhaps they will find one another?''

"We can hope. Sit with him, Fanari, I must go and see Elrond. I will come when he wakes." He turned in a swirl of thigh length golden hair, striding away. He always walked as if he were going into battle, she thought, they all did, those mighty ones.

The cool sun was directly over the valley when focus came back into Tindómion's eyes. Fanari sensed it rather than saw it. She poured a pale wine and came across to him. His face looked peaceful as he thanked her and sat up, taking a mouthful.  
He said nothing. There was no need of words between them, although he lightly touched her wrist before she walked away, leaving him to his thoughts.

_Canst thou hear me now, father? _ Tindómion felt him. _I feel his soul in mine._  
A shadow cut the light and he lifted his head. Glorfindel laid a hand on his shoulder.  
"Come and spar with me," he said.

They walked to the training grounds, and the 'Trees' – tall beams of thick wood set into the ground. From them protruded smaller 'branches' beginning only some inches above the ground. Some angled up, some pointed down, others were horizontal, all were of varying lengths.

The Trees were battered, the wood splintered from the impact of the many swords. The whole area was covered in chippings of bark which made the ground springy under the feet. Glorfindel had designed a different 'terrain' about each pole: one was lain with tiles deliberately made slick and slimy, another was a walled circle of sucking mud, one knee-deep water, yet another was interspersed with narrow poles to stand on and each 'tree' was so designed that it would rotate.

Gurthdur flashed as Tindómion drew it, stepping onto the treacherous tiles and Glorfindel began the rotation of the 'tree'.  
Tindómion aimed for the central beam, avoiding the branches which turned with it, Gurthdur's edge biting into the wood before being withdrawn. The snap of metal against wood became one sound as his speed increased.

_"A warrior is always balanced, Istelion, always moving."_ Gil-galad had said, long ago. _"Save for the archer. Watch how the archer takes a breath, releases it and becomes utterly still before aiming and loosing. Different skills require different training, and thy weapon will ever be the greatsword." _

Tindómion began to pivot on the balls of his feet, turning in circles diesel to the revolution of the training tree faster and faster. He span in twisting jumps to connect with the beam at the very top and landed like a cat, to bounce down on one foot and hit the base.

This was repetitive, but as the tree span faster those branches could strike one unwary and lay them flat, trip them or catch them in kidneys or across the head; it was designed to keep warriors alert.  
He landed, as the tree slowed, and stepped back from the greased tiles, drawing a cloth from his belt and running it down the sword.

"I feel...lighter," he admitted, looking up with a faint smile. "Whatever comes to pass."

"I know." Glorfindel laid a hand on his back. "Bloody Fëanorions," he added, and then embraced his friend hard.~

~~~


	57. 'Seek Thy Son.'

  
~ An arrow of pain pierced Maglor's heart and it brought with it a cord formed of blood which stretched from soul to soul and tugged. It drew him inexorably away from the ocean, the shores he had wandered so very long. That caused him some concern for a while, but what he sought was not here.

_Do I know this place? _

He found himself on the fringes of a small wood. About it the land looked settled; there were areas of tilth, and black pigs rooted for beechmast among the trees. His steps had, in fact, brought him to the Chetwood beyond Bree, where lay the three smaller villages of the Breeland: Staddle, Comb and Archet, Bree Hill itself rose beyond the woods.

He had veered south, crossing between the Hills of Evendim and the White Downs and Tower Hills further west. Now, emerging from preoccupation, he sought to realize his position in the world.

There was the sound of dead leaves rustling underfoot, very quiet, but still louder than an Elf's steps. Cautiously, Maglor moved behind the bole of a tree, becoming utterly still, his hand rested on the hilt of the sword that had been given to him in another Age.

The figure which came into view was carrying a short stick with which it companionably slapped the rumps of the snorting pigs. He would only have reached Maglor's waist. His feet were bare, the round head crowned with a shock of brown curls, thick as a ram's fleece. He was whistling a carefree tune through his teeth.

_A child? Sent out to see to his fathers pig-herd? _

The child said: ''Come up Blacky,'' to an enormous dark hog almost taller than he was, and the pig grumbled and moved on amiably. Both passed within an ell of Maglor obliviously, but as he turned his head, following their path, his movement brought the child around quickly, stick raised.

Perhaps he was not a child. The round face bore faint lines around the brown eyes and the skin was weathered from outdoor life. There was an openness in the expression which did indeed look childlike, but Maglor, his eyes dropping to the feet, which were covered in dense, curling hair, did not think this was a small Man.

The dark eyes rounded in amazement as they looked up. Strangers in the Breeland could not always be trusted these days, but it took Cob only a moment of unabashed staring to convince the Hobbit that this was not a Man, and although he was very tall and intimidating, his face was too beautiful to belong to one of the wolfsheads' who had been plaguing these parts.

Halflings and Men lived in harmony in the Breeland. Cob would know a Man if he saw one. Bree-men were somewhat stocky and short, the mysterious Rangers were tall, fair skinned and dark haired. But this did not look like a Ranger either.

The command to: ''Stay back now !'' was unconvincing and Cob himself did not back away, still gazing in fascination. The man did not look entirely real, and yet somehow was more real and – he sought for a word and found _ intense _ – than the tree he stood against. His skin was as white as frost, without a single line or wrinkle in it, as if some-one had sculpted it from a block of salt, and the great eyes held a light which the Hobbit could not understand. His heart suddenly felt both sorrow and awe. He tried to force moisture into a mouth gone dry.

Maglor's mind, like an old mill-wheel reluctantly turning, recalled a tongue learned long ago, spoke by the Edain.

_ He thinks I mean him harm. _

He spread his hands out in a gesture of peace. Cob watched as the tall being walked away with power and a strange floating grace.

''Well, I never did,'' he breathed after a moment, looking at the black boar as if it could answer his questions.  
"Well, I reckon, Blacky, that was an Elf." He remembered his second cousin Hob telling him of the two Elves in Bree who had saved he and his betrothed from harm.  
_ Eyes like...burning ice ! _ Hob had said poetically, slamming down his mug of ale.

"Ah, well sometimes Hob exaggerates, we all know that," Cob went on. "But not this time."

***

Maglor's pace quickened, unsettled by the meeting. Since the night when his world had ended, he had spoken to so few people that he wondered if he had forgotten how to communicate. His thoughts withdrew, focused once again on that lure before him, the bond which had locked into his heart. He had not walked far when he was thrown abruptly back into the world by a a shout behind him, the squealing of pigs and a scent which he remembered with hate: unwashed sweat and the equally tangible stench of violence.  
He turned reflexively and ran back, his sword drawn, a dagger in his left hand. The metal flared briefly, catching and burning in his eyes.

Four men were in the clearing. Three were attempting to drive the pigs away. The boar was down, the shaft of a rough spear protruding from its belly . Striped piglets and protective, panicked sows wheeled in confusion and annoyance. The 'halfling,' as Maglor mentally dubbed the child-sized being, was struggling with one of the thieves. Judging from their appearance, the men were wolfsheads, raiding for the pigs and prepared to kill for them. The small curly head was wrenched back and a blade gleamed at the exposed throat.

Hot, white rage poured through the Fëanorion. It took him forward in a flying leap, his boot catching the man on the point of the jaw and the power behind the kick snapped the neck with a crack. There was a bellow of anger and the men dropped into the crouches of experienced knife fighters. The halfling was flung aside into the beechmast.

Maglor had never forgotten how to fight, and he drew on his experience like a well-worn gauntlet as, for a moment, the faces of the men blurred into the snarling countenance of Uldor, whom Maglor had slain in the wreck of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.

One of the younger ruffians blanched, and his sweating hand loosened on his knife-hilt. This _thing's _ eyes held a flame that was too uncanny, and he stumbled back, knowing he and his companions had come up against someone which outmatched them. This was no cottar or peaceful farmer to be bullied and threatened.

His legs were swept away from under him as Cob, with a grim expression on his round face, slammed a fallen branch into the back of his knees. The Hobbit concluded with a whack on the downed head which laid the man unconscious and nodded in emphatic satisfaction before lifting his eyes to watch the fight.

It was not a very protracted one. Cob had never seen any-one move as fast as the tall man. As the wolfsheads rushed him, he pivoted, spinning in a complete circle and his sword span with him, slicing into the first outlaw...slicing _through him._

For a heartbeat, confusion spread over the rough features, then his torso fell one way and his lower body the other, spilling entrails. The next man coughed as a dagger drew a lateral incision across his stomach, and toppled to the dead leaves.

Maglor's hood had fallen back, releasing the ebony hair which spilled to his knees, it looked startling against the chiseled whiteness of his features. Cob could not meet his eyes or speak, could only watch in horror as his rescuer stopped to clean his blade before looking down, his words formal, oddly antique as he spoke:  
''Art thou harmed?''

Cob slowly shook his head. Long fingers lifted up his chin and the silver eyes surveyed him, then turned to glance at the unconscious man.

''I knocked him out, sir.'' Cob found his voice. It held a touch of pride and, he thought a brief gleam of amusement crossed that haughty face.

''That was very well done of thee. He should be brought to justice, they would have killed thee for thy pigs and driven them away as booty.''

''I know sir ! There are some vagrants who would kill for a copper coin. More than ever these days. I must inform the village and the headman.'' He glanced at the man on the ground and Maglor nodded.

''I will remain here and see he does not flee.''

''Thank you, sir !''

Cob raced off, but he had not gone far before he met with a group of Men and Hobbits armed with pitchforks, skinning -knives and pruning shears. The the sound of the pigs' alarum had brought them.

Maglor tucked back his hair and drew up his hood at the approach of the villagers. He stood motionless as Cob explained breathlessly what had happened. Hugon Goatleaf, who had been bringing a good milch cow from Bree to his cousin in Staddle, stared at the tall stranger, seeing a half-hidden glitter of pale eyes. He sucked in a breath.  
''Sir - you'll be and Elf, surely? Like the ones we had through here at the back end of winter?'' He turned to the others. ''You remember. That night young Nob and his little lass Fern were attacked? I was there. One with gold hair and one darker, with...'' Hugon tried to peer more closely at those eyes, and cleared his throat. ''He had eyes like yours sir, the dark one.''  
He would ever remember that: the eyes of the Elves who had passed through Bree had shone as if lamps burned behind them.

There was a chorus of agreement followed by a subtle shifting back, save for those Hobbits present.

''Elf? I knew it !'' Cob exclaimed irrepressibly.

Maglor had stiffened at the mans words. He took a step forward as if compelled. A silence fell as they listened to him speak, his voice sonorous, the words slow and formal as if he were an ancient king, like those the old tales spoke of.

''I pray thee, tell me,'' Maglor said. ''Thou didst see an Elf in this place? With eyes like mine?...''

***

''...it were back in the winter, sir." Hugon wiped his mouth after a drink of the home brewed ale served by his cousins wife. "I was in the Pony, enjoying a mug and a pipe, when two strangers came in, but these weren't no vagabonds, tall as yourself, Sir and richly clothed. Old Barly served 'em and they took a room. Didn't talk to 'em myself.'' He admitted frankly.

''Hu', will you tell 'em about Hob,'' interjected Cob impatiently. ''He's my cousin, once removed on his da's side,'' he informed Maglor with a beaming smile. The Fëanorion, whose own facial muscles had not formed a smile for a very long time, found his mouth twitching at the ebullient little person.

''I am goin' to if you give me leave, master Cob!'' Hugon moistened his mouth again. Maglor tasted his ale tentatively and found it refreshing. He attempted to smile his thanks to the pink-cheeked young woman who hovered with a large jug in her hands.

''Well, it were late Sir, and Barly was closing up. Now, Hob who works there, he's courtin' young Fern Tunnelly, a pretty lass, who works in the Pony, helpin' with the cookin'. Why, in normal times, Fern could walk home in the middle of the night, and no-one would worry, but since we had all these strangers in, young Hob will have it that he must escort her.''  
''I was home and just gettin' into my bed when I heard steel, and rushes out. And there was these two Elves fighting some of the men who had been in the Pony – they were suspected of thievin', takin' eggs, and fowl, and pickin' pockets, but no-one could prove it and when they first come they had coin, so Barly would serve 'em as customers so long as they could pay.  
"Sir, those Elves killed them rogues, 'cause they had waylaid Hob and Fern, and were goin' to murder 'em.'' His ruddy cheeks darkened. ''Young Hob was game as a pebble! He tried to fight 'em, but they were armed. The Elves were like lightning.'' He sat back, shaking his head. ''And the dark one...well,'' he amended after some thought, ''His hair were like bronze and long, like yours – the other gold as butter. But the other one, aye, I saw his eyes clear enough, they were like yours.''

_ Eyes like mine...? _ Maglor felt his heartbeat drown out the talk about him.  
_ Do I truly have a son, with the light of Maedhros' hair amidst my black? But she would have died...! _  
He realized that silence had fallen, and gathered himself.

''Eru be thanked the halflings were unharmed and my kin were there, good-man,'' he spoke carefully. ''Dost know where they went?''

Hugon sighed regretfully, and shook his head.  
''They were gone by dawn the next day. Barly would be one to ask, he would know if any-one. I am off back to Bree, I could show you to the Pony.''

Maglor rose in a flowing movement as if he would walk out of the door instantly.  
''I would be most grateful.''

''It's not far, we'll be there by sun-down, and I have to tell of what happened here today, so we should be going now.'' Hugon laid down his mug and rose.

As Maglor followed the Man out of the house, Cob trotted up behind him.

''Thank you Sir Elf.'' He put out a small hand and Maglor took it. Like a long unused door, his mind creaked away from self absorption of his own griefs.

''No thanks is needed, young one. I am honored to have been able to help thee.'' He swept his hand to his breast before following his guide.

Hugon's natural garrulity suffered a check as soon as they left Staddle. Among his own people he had felt confident and pleasantly self-important, but alone with the Elf, he found himself remembering the wounds the dead men had received, and his words dried up. He was glad to see Bree approaching, its lamp-light comforting in the silence before dark. The birds had gone to their roosts, the air was cool and clear; in the opalescent sky, the Evening Star was a white flame.

Hugon realized that his companion had stopped and was looking up at the star. His right hand clenched tightly for a moment, the black head dropped, and then his fingers eased open. Lucent silver eyes fixed on the Man.

''Good-man, I would like to see this Innkeep privily,'' he murmured.

Hugon felt a stab of disappointment that he could not walk into the Pony with this remarkable guest, but every-one in Staddle knew, and word would spread. Under the weight of that unblinking gaze, he nodded.

''Of course, Sir, if that be your pleasure, I can take ye into the Pony the back way, and call Barly to see you.''

''I thank thee.'' The Elf drew his hood down further.

The West Gate was just closing as they went through. The gate-keeper cast a curious stare after Hugon and his tall companion, but it might be one of the mysterious Rangers, he guessed.  
The smell of cooking was coming from the houses, for this was the supper hour, and smoke from chimneys wound up into the still air. Hugon lead the Elf past the doors of the Prancing Pony and into the small court.

In the quiet time between supper and the usual influx of evening patrons, Barliman Butterbur was surprised to find himself called by his friend Hugon, who related the incident in Staddle in a hushed voice and motioned with his head to the door of a small room behind the kitchen.

''I put him in there, Barly, he wanted to speak to you private, the trouble in Staddle needs to be spoken of in moot.''

Butterbur looked at the blank wood as if he could see through it.  
''Another Elf, eh?'' he muttered. ''I wish Gandalf were here. These are unsettling times, to say no more. But you say he's askin' about the two who passed through here?''

''The darker one, 'specially. They have the same colour eyes. Look alike too, unless I misremember. And I don't.''

''All right, Hu'. Hob!'' Barliman called out. ''Get me some of the elderberry wine and cold fowl. We have a guest.'' He lifted the door latch and entered the room.

Fern trotted across to her betrothed, wiping her hands, curls bouncing as she tilted her head in curiosity.

''Barly has a visitor.'' Hob lowered his voice. ''In the little room. Fernie, 'tis another Elf. Shhh !'' He laid a finger over his lips. ''Say nothing. I'm to take some elder wine and food.''

Fern's floury fingers went to the brooch she pinned on the inside the neck of her gown. Too special to be openly worn, it was nonetheless a treasure to her, and she swore it brought she and her family good luck.

''I'll bring the wine,'' she whispered and scampered off to the cellar. Her eyes were very bright as she followed Hob down the stone flagged corridor. Balancing a tray, he knocked quietly on the door and as it opened, Fern ducked in behind him.

One candle was lit, its flame throwing golden light over the figure standing close to it. Looking up and up, Fern saw a face white and beautiful, the candle-glow caught in the eyes, burning them into a hot, molten silver. She almost cried out in surprise; for a moment she thought this was the one who had given her the brooch, but this Elf's hair was black.

''Thank you Hob, and you Fern-lass.'' Barliman cleared his throat as he broke the lead seal on the wine and poured. ''And not a word,'' he added, with a look at his guest.

Hob nodded, but he spoke up in the imperturbable manner of his folk.  
''Sir. The ones here afore, they saved me and my Fern. If we can do anything for ye, just ask. Fernie, show him. One of them gave her this.''

Fern's small fingers unclipped the brooch and, as if under some spell, her brown eyes on the Elf, she held it up across her palm.

Maglor's long white fingers hovered above it for a moment, and all heard the intake of his breath. Gently he picked it up.

It was old, but such things fashioned by the Noldor did not easily break, or weaken. Its shape was a shield within a circle, a symmetrical white cone , tapering to a peak and atop it rose a tall pillar, white gold the former, rose-gold the pillar.

_ I know this....._ He felt the blood pulse in his ears. _The Twin Houses of the Pillar and the Tower of Snow. Penlod's House...one daughter he had... _

He leaned his free hand against the table for a moment, before he spoke.

''Who gave it to thee?'' He took a controlling breath, seeing the little lass shrink back. ''Please, maiden. Was it the Elf with eyes like mine?''

Fern nodded dumbly.

''I thank thee,'' he whispered.

''Go now, both of you,'' Butterburr said with a very fair assumption of authority, and shut the door behind the Hobbits.

''No offense sir, but you look like you need a drink.'' He slid the wine-cup across the table. Maglor looked up and nodded his thanks, taking a long swallow.

_ It has to be true. My eyes...that brooch...that House ended in Gondolin. Oh dear Eru, I ** knew ** Fanari Penlodiel!_  
His hands spread on the wood of the table. He wanted to groan aloud.

''Where did they go?'' He saw the Innkeep flinch at his tone.

''Sir, I do not know. I wish old Gandalf were here; he knows about your folk sir. They say they're all passing westward now, to the sea.'' Barliman waved his hand vaguely west. ''Some people say they see 'em...these two went out the west gate sure enough, but old Hale who was out with his sheep, said he saw 'em turn south.'' He drank wine and licked his lips. ''Down the Greenway maybe...or towards the downs, but those downs are a bad place, no-one goes nigh to 'em. There's dark things come out of the old barrows.''

Maglor shook his head.  
_I need a horse... provisions..... I have nothing to barter for them – only my harp and I will not sell that._

''They do say...Gandalf and the Rangers, that there's a hidden place where your folk dwell, towards the mountains, east away.''

''An Elf-realm. I have heard of it, I think...'' Maglor whispered.  
_Or was it a dream?_  
''Good-man, I need a horse and,'' he paused and then went on, stiffly: ''I have nothing to give for it.''

''Sir, I would give ye a horse right gladly, but we have none, none big enough for you. We mostly use ponies, and some for draft or plow.''

''Then I must walk. My own legs have served me well enough these years.''

''I'm right sorry sir. But we can fill a pack for you, and give you a room, if you'll take it,'' Barliman offered.

_ How long since I slept in a bed? How long since the silk sheets, the marble and velvets..?  
There was silk in Mordor, velvet and wine and...**him** _  
The memory of those eyes melting over him like liquid amethyst brought his heart up into his throat. He forced the image down, took a steadying breath.

''I thank thee. I will depart before dawn.''

~~~

''This is the room your folks stayed in, sir.''  
Butterbur set down a candlestick. The floor was of wood, swept and laid with two worn but well brushed sheep-fleeces, the beds narrow, but the blankets clean, smelling as if they were stored with lavender. Two large coppers held hot and cold water, and there was a large bowl with washcloths folded beside it.

''I'll have supper brought here as I doubt you'll wish to mingle.'' As Maglor nodded, Barliman left and closed the door.

A fire had been lit in the hearth, casting a comforting glow into the room. Maglor drew the drapes across the window and sat down before the fire, offing his cloak.

_ My son ... thou wert here...?_ He rose again, restless, then poured water, stripped and washed. His hair hung heavy and wet to his knees as he picked up a cup of wine, sat down again, gazing into the flames.

_I know nothing. .._  
Before him, the flames weaved a dance of light, broke apart, melted back together.  
_ I know...nothing of the world now...And I am afraid I am mad..._

The firelight beat against his face as he closed his eyes.  
_ I have not even been truly alive, existing in grief and hate...There was that winter with Lintalómë, before we parted. I wonder if he still waits and lives as I do, his lover long dead, as all I love are long dead..._

The night passed as so many nights of his long life, in a blink, a breath. Dawn came thin and pale through the drapes and Maglor rose, his eyes lifting from the dead ashes of the fire as a knock sounded quietly at the door, and the inn-keeper and halfling entered with pitchers of water, hot wine, cold roast goose.

Maglor found his voice out of the dregs of dreaming.  
''I need to know what happens in the world.''  
He knew how strange the question must sound and was therefore surprised when Barliman nodded as if unsurprised.

"Ah, the trouble in Staddle – it is all a part of it, Sir, and those...Black Riders," he shuddered. "who came through last autumn. That Ranger, Strider, he said they came from...Mordor...''

_ Mordor...Sauron....** him.**_  
Maglor picked up the wine and drank.

''Mordor is far away,'' his fingers tightened around the cup. "Is there war?"

"So they say, sir. There's kingdoms way down there, like there was here once, ages ago, tall men with bright swords...''

"And the Elves who were here? Did they give their names?"

The inn-keeper frowned, his brow creasing.  
''Let me think...'' He snapped his fingers. "The darker haired one, he said something to the other, with the gold hair...sounded a bit like...glory?''

"_Glorfindel?_" Maglor said.

"Aye! that's it! Glorfindel.''

_Glorfindel? But he died....many a lay was sung of his death, his duel against the Balrog in the escape from Gondolin...He died...so many died...It cannot be him! _  
Something too bitter for tears wedged under his breastbone like a knife-blade.

''I must go.'' He needed somehow find the one whom had reached him with music. His son. And then...  
''I thank thee. You said they may have headed for some hills? Downs?''

''No, Sir, no!'' It was Hob who spoke up. ''That's a dark place, no-one goes there!''

''Then why would my kin go there?'' Maglor inquired looking down at the agitated halfling.

Butterbur rubbed his pate.  
''Well, there's some-one lives out that way, you remember, Hob? when every horse and pony in Bree were gone, so that Master...B... Underhill could get nothin' but Ferny's old breakdown?''  
Hob nodded.

''They came back, a strange old gammer brought 'em, never said much, but he went a 'riding back that way.'' Barliman shook his head. ''He were a strange one, speakin' rhymes and riddles, but he took a sup of my ale and thanked me before leavin' on his fat old pony, riding merry as ye please for the downs.''

Maglor considered this but could make nothing of it. All he could do was follow whatever trail there was, and it was possible the Elves had been that way to see the strange man, whoever he was.

''What is said of the Downs?'' he asked.

Hob piped up: ''There's ghosts there, sir.''  
At the raised brow he nodded vehemently. ''I spoke to them Hobbits from the shire, Master Barly, they had trouble there!'' His voice lowered. ''They got lost, lured into one of those old barrows. Master Peregrin, the one who told me, never said much...couldn't remember, but when he waked up, he was out on the grass in white rags and gold. And that old man was there, Master Barly, he set 'em on the right road to Bree. Tom, Old Tom. But folks say those who stray into them barrows mostly don't ever come back." He shuddered.

Maglor went down on one knee, gracefully.  
''Elves do not fear the wraiths of the dead, little one," he said softly.

''These are more than ghosts,'' Butterbur cleared his throat. ''Been evil a long time, that place, since the old wars.''

''I will take heed of what thou sayest.'' Maglor rose.

~~~

The sun was up in a cool spring sky, and the dew was heavy, grey on the grass. There was not a soul on the road as yet, only a few sheep, left out at pasture and the bleating of their lambs.

The sun, climbing, brought forth a profusion of rich, green scents. Maglor felt the earth warming under him, the exuberance of leaves opening, grass pushing up, flowers unfolding and before him he saw the downs, serene in the dawn. The northwestern edge was little more than a league from Bree itself, but first, he came to an ancient dike, a border long forgotten and he paused, feeling the memories under his feet.  
_This echo's with the laments of Men..._

The turf was springy under his long stride. The hills rose beside him, smooth and rounded like the waves of a placid sea, but the skyline was broken with barrows, and here and there a standing stone stood, weathered by the Ages, like a solitary pointing finger. Two of them rose before him, a broken portal which lead to nothing.  
He paused, his long fingers touching the stone. The sun lent no warmth to its surface; something cold seemed to strike up from deep below, something sentient and evil.

Passing between the stones, he walked on swiftly, for that sense of an eye waiting to be opened was strong, but he saw nothing and heard nothing until late in the day when he mounted a ridge fringed with pale sky. A woman was singing like a lark as if in denial of the darkness under her feet, and as he watched he saw her dance into view, yellow hair streaming about her.

''_Bright thy soul as summer stars,  
Dark as shadowed evening,  
Ages spent in lost lament,  
Suffering and grieving,  
Leaves the shores you trod so long,  
O ancient heart, O wondrous song,  
Seek renewal, seek thy son,  
Before this worlds Third Age is done,  
Thy back to the strands thou didst wander in sorrow,  
Thy face to the mountains, today and tomorrow,  
His heart too is shadowed by loss and by ending,  
Let ye be united, before the worlds ending._'' ~


	58. An Ancient Weaving

 

  
~ ''Hail, Maglor Fëanorion, I am Goldberry.'' The woman held out her white arms. ''Too long hast thee been lost.''

_ She is not Elf or Mortal._  
Maglor bowed formally in the silence imposed by her naming of him. It was as if some-one had given him back part of something long lost. She smiled like a sunrise.

''I am the daughter of the river and I come to greet thee and take thee to the House of Tom Bombadil, Iarwain ben Adar. Come.''

She went before him down a steep green scarp, her steps half a dance He followed and saw ash-grey smoke rising from a chimney. There was a homestead set under the hill, it's door standing open and he followed her inside. Simply as a girl, she set food and cyser before him and he watched her with a dawning curiosity, for she was fair as an Elf queen, her gown green as new grass. She wore a brooch upon it, of many shaded blue stones like a flower, but no other ornament.

''Thy son sat there.'' Goldberry gestured, and Maglor felt a frisson shock through him, His heart fluttered up like a bird taking wing.

"Lady – how, how canst thou know who I am and whom I seek?" he asked and she stilled, regarding him with eyes clear as running water.

"He looks like thee," she said simply. "And the imprint of thy blood is strong in both of thee."

He came to his feet in a mirroring of his son's actions when Tom had spoken to him.

''I need to find him...'' Too many unspoken words piled into his throat, too many emotions. ''I never knew...I do not even know how I could have a son. I know who is mother is now."  
_ Dear Eru, I was mad, I did not know her...and we believed her dead._

''He dwells in Imladris, which lies in a hidden valley west of the Towers of Mist," Goldberry told him. "And for long he lived in Lindon, serving Gil-galad."

_My son served Gil-galad? _  
He remembered Fingon's child with an ache.  
"I do not understand." He felt the burn of shame in his cheeks, and looked at Goldberry. "I _raped_ his mother! She should be dead, how could she live to give birth?"

"Thou didst know her. That should answer thy question."

He held the Ages in the hands of his mind and looked at them, realizing how very obtuse he had been, how absorbed in himself, his brothers. He had only seen Fanari Penlodiel four times. When she had vanished with Turgon's people he had never given her another thought, and somehow she had known that he could not love any woman. Yet he had liked her, had she been one of his House, he thought she would have been a dear friend. He had never imagined, even in his darkest moments, that he would have harmed her, or any woman.

"That was what I saw in her eyes when I – left her, she understood. And she loved me."

Goldberry watched him, patient as rain.  
"She loves thy son. She lived so he would be born, and one day find his father."

"He should hate me," Maglor whispered.

"He tried to," she responded. "But the shadow of doom lies across the lands, and there is no time now for hate."

***

That was the spring when all was to change.

The land, the very air were charged with energy as before some vast summer storm. Maglor, so far from where these great events took place, yet felt in his soul the time when Middle-earth hung precariously in a balance; either to fall to darkness, or awaken to a new dawn.

The day was bitter and sunless, the air flowing from the east, as Maglor stood upon the small path of white chalk which lead up from the Old Forest to Tom's house. The Stirring seemed quenched by the frigid wind. He was uncertain of how many days he remained in this house, but he needed that time. Not only Arda changed that bleak spring. His own perception of his existance altered, and he required peace and time to think.

A son...A son, who had served Fingon's son, and now the House of Eärendil in the haven of Imladris.

While the wars had raged across Eriador and through Eregion, the time when Imladris was founded, he had been on the coasts beyond the Ered Luin, gazing out to sea to an isle swept bare by the sea winds.

Himring.  
He visited Maedhros in that mighty fortress and defended it with him during the Dagor Bragollach. Fingon had brought Gil-galad there before everything went down in ruin. All Maglor need do was to fix upon it in memory and see the lofty towers, the fiery banners flying.  
He remembered the councils Maedhros had held there when he devised his Union, and Fingon's unexpected visit. He watched as the years bled into another, and spread behind him like a cloak of woven shadow, with bright, too-brief glints of vivid light. Sometimes, even now, it seemed impossible that all was gone, sunk in darkness, under the waves of the Great Sea.

In the soulless wind which promised darkness, Maglor stood in the river of the years. They swept past him carrying images which shone forth and then flowed on: brilliant eyes, rich voices, swords, blood, white towers, the flaming glory of the Silmarilli, betrayal and death, heartache... blood... He lifted his right hand, seeing the scars upon it, where the facets of the Silmaril were forever fresh, silver-white as a cobweb.

_ Maedhros, my dear brother, I should have saved thee or gone with thee into the fire...was Námo merciful? Did Nienna entreat for thy soul to take on flesh again and walk in Aman with our brothers, our father? Or am I, as I fear, the very last of the sons of Fëanor, that doomed House...but not the last of our blood. I have a son.  
His mother should not have lived. I did not love her, I did not even desire her, she stood in the way, and I wanted to hurt. I was mad with rage and grief, sick to my soul and weary, yet that does not excuse me ! She was defenseless, trying to protect Elwing's sons. I knew she would die. I had killed so many of my own kin by then, what was one more? _

He found the wind in his face as he walked around the house, seeing the gentle flush of lamps being lit within He came to the stable and the comforting scent of straw and warm horse-flesh surrounded him. The plump old pony whom Tom called Fatty Lumpkin put his head over the door, snorting an amiable greeting.  
Maglor patted the stocky neck and the pony whickered. Outside the wind increased, howled mournfully about the building.

He thought he had been mad, truly so, for a long time after Maedhros' death. He did not know how he survived, until it was driven into him, mercilessly, that he indeed possessed a body which could be harmed, could feel pain...

A shudder weltered through him. He would have died in Barad-dûr. He had fought relentlessly because Maedhros had not been broken by Morgoth, and because he was afraid that when he died the Void would eat his soul, and there would be a final and absolute separation from those he loved.  
But he would have died, for all his resolve. He was dying even as the man came into the room, and even locked behind his last defenses he had known it was not Sauron. Through the reek of orc filth, he had been aware of a different odor, clean and rich. He had been taken down from the wheel and cleansed, been given wine, lain in clean sheets to fall instantly into sleep. When he woke, his first sight was of black walls, red sky through barred windows. A crushing weight of horror and dread had fallen upon him like a hill.  
He was not dead.

''He is gone,'' a voice said in Sindarin. Maglor turned his head slowly.

An Elf stood leaning against the wall, bare arms, taut with hard muscle, crossed negligently. They were marked from shoulder to wrist with savage, intricate designs. He straightened and walked across to the bed.

The stranger looked Noldo save for those barbaric tattoos. His hair was even blacker than Maglor's, showing a bluish crows-wing gleam. It was drawn up high on the head, fell down his back in loose thick ripples almost to his knees. But his eyes were not Noldorin at all; they were a luminous violet against alabaster skin.

''He is gone. Drink.'' He slid an arm under Maglor's back and raised him. ''I tell thee truly, Maglor, he is gone. Great events are in motion. Sauron,'' the name spat away from him as if it were a stone. ''is summoned to Númenor. No-one else will hurt thee.''

How did the strange Elf know his name? Maglor was certain he had not spoken or screamed, or uttered one sound. He did not want to open his mouth, he had willed himself to say nothing.  
The scent of plum and blackberry rose from the goblet, and the arm that supported him was strong, somehow protective. He drank on reflex, feeling the wine soothe its way down into his coldness. Cold. Numb. He was weary, and he recognized with bleak tranquility that his soul was detaching itself from his harrowed body.

_....I will take, Kinslayer..._

The wine choked in his throat and he all but retched it forth again. The cup was withdrawn, he felt hard hands seize his arms.

''He cannot take everything,'' the stranger hissed. ''Thou didst fight him. He never broke thee ! Fight him now !''

Horror sluiced through Maglor. How could the stranger understand? He had fled into memories which should have formed a bastion against Sauron's torture and the Dark Lord had followed him, drawn out his most secret desires, pulled out the shame and hung it before him, stripped the glamor from it and made it into something vile. There had been no comfort anywhere...

''That is not something I personally would feel any guilt over,'' the other murmured with a rich, amused laugh. "Thou wert fortunate in thy father, Maglor."

***

Maglor's loathing of Sauron was adamantine, but his hatred of the the _no-one,_ who said he was _nothing,_ was something far more passionate. The fires of it burned away his dying and threw him back into life. The strange Elf was skilled and wildly erotic, lavish in his seductions. He knew precisely how to fan Maglor's sullen embers, just as Fëanor had exploded them into life, long ago.

And he simply let Maglor go.

It took a long while of journeying for him to truly realize that he was free, and that his detestation of Sauron was matched and obliterated by the far more complex abhorrence he felt for the Elf who had saved and released him.

Coming to himself as he rode westward, he had uttered another oath into the dusk.  
One day he would find him again...slay that 'No-one'.

''_And ** this ** Oath I will keep!_'' he had hissed.

No-one was more aware than he that Oaths made by the Elves were not empty words. They bound, and to be forsworn brought more than anger, or regret or shame.

***

It was dark now in the stall, and with one last pat to the pony's neck, Maglor turned, walking through the chill gloom to the house.

_ I was afraid to go to Mordor, _ he thought as he walked to the penthouse, and looked out into the blackness of the night._ But I was more afraid to face...him again. _  
And he was not speaking of Sauron.

By dawn the wind had died, the grey cloud began to patch and dissipate, allowing a pale blue sky to open. As day broke, Maglor bade farewell to Tom and his lady.

''Dark things stir in the barrows at nightfall," Tom said. ''It is in my mind you do not need to fear such, but Tom says cross the downs in the daylight. Your long legs will carry you fast, Singer of the Song.''

Maglor heeded this advice and walked swiftly, feeling the lurking menace in his very bones, but he was beyond the hills when the sun sank in a wan sky and the stars pricked out. He held his way along the old east-west road and walked on with Eärendil as his guide.  
Memories came as they always did: that one star becoming two, and then three set in a circlet, blazing on his father's brow. Fëanor's eyes flamed with that same incandescence, and Maglor could not tell whether the Silmarilli were his eyes, or his eyes the jewels.

In the greater darkness before dawn he halted under a tree half a league from the road. He lit no fire, ate sparingly of the provisions given to him by Goldberry, drank mead from a leather skin. Above him, the stars were caught in the branches of the oak like a glittering net. He leaned his head back against the tree stem and drifted to sleep.

A pleasant memory visited him in his brief rest, of laughter and companionship long ago. It soothed him, so that when he rose to a cold, bright dawn, he went on quickly, the long, slanting sunlight flowing across the land from the east.

The land was wide, lonely and beautiful. Under the trees primroses bloomed in pale yellow carpets, and he halted to kneel and breathe in their fresh scent. Birdsong echoed through the branches where the swelling leaf buds were ready to burst into tender green froth, some already splitting the husks which protected them as they grew like a secret deed through the winters.

The sun was at the midpoint in the heavens when he heard distant hoof beats behind him. ~

~~~


	59. Nothing Is Ever Forgotten

  
~ Maglor hesitated for a moment, unafraid yet uncertain whether he wished to meet this rider. So long had he been alone he was unused to company, and felt the strain at having to speak. He moved back from the road to a stand of gorse, drawing up his hood, watching as the rider came into view.  
The horse was long-limbed and graceful, and it's rider was an Elf. A great sheaf of silver hair rippled like silk. He wore yew-green and brown, and bore a bow and quiver of arrows on his back. There was a sword belt about this waist, a cloak and pack strapped to the horse.

At first Maglor thought him very young, but reappraised that notion, though the rider's face, modeled from elegant bones, carried a sweetness the Fëanorion associated with innocent youth. But there was sorrow in the lines of the lovely mouth, and it was that which compelled Maglor to step forward and raise his hand.

The Elf had been so intent on the road ahead that the movement clearly startled him. His horse came to an abrupt controlled stop, wheeling to face Maglor, the rider's pale grey eyes were wide, and for a heartbeat Maglor saw an expression of startled hope in them. Almost instantly the look faded, was replaced with what looked like, but could not be, recognition. He dismounted gracefully, raising his hand to his breast.

"Greetings." His voice was soft.

***

It was deeply mortifying to realize how mistaken he had been. He had been so very sure that his lord would come to Mithlond.  
Elgalad's guts twisted in shame, he hardly knew how to bear his own company as he rode and listened to the flaying mockery which attacked him like a pack of hungry wolves:  
_ He wanted to be rid of me. Perhaps he did care enough to want me gone, but I was so naïve, so foolish. I thought he...wanted me._

He shrank away from the thoughts. After so long, why would his lord be free to come to him? There had probably been truth within what he said: that Sauron did want the Havens and would attack them. Perhaps some old fondness had moved him to meet Elgalad and warn him, then hold out the sweet inducement that they might at last be together. But in Valinor they would not be free to love as Elgalad wished. He knew now that love of another male was punished, but for his lord to be free of his bonds was enough. Would have to be enough. The hard fact was that his lord had lied to him, and Sauron was going to triumph over the last of the free people and...  
_ My Lord will never be free of him. _

He swallowed as he forced himself to confront the truth. What he had said beside the Long Lake still held. He wanted to live on the same earth as the one he loved, even if he never saw him again. He wanted to be with his people and fight against the darkness which chained his lord until he was slain and could fight no more.

The sudden appearance of a lone figure beside the road drained the blood from his face and set his heart hammering, until he saw it was a stranger. Yet as he dismounted he found himself staring in astonishment at the face, skin white and taut over stern bones, expressionless save for the eyes which burned polished silver. And those eyes held such sorrow that Elgalad felt it as an ancient wound within the other, one which never healed.

_ I know those eyes..._ He knew he was staring, could not look away.

"Greetings," the stranger's voice was mellow, golden as honey. "I seek for Imladris, which I have been told is to the east. Dost thou know of it?"

"I am h-heading there myself, l-lord."

"Then this is a fortuitous indeed. Wilt thou lead me? What may I call thee?"

"My n-name is Elgalad."  
_ I know thee, I surely know whom thou art. _  
His voice shook.  
"I w-will gladly guide th-thee." And he asked, although he knew:  
"What m-may I call _thee?_"

For a moment he thought the other would not answer, and then he said slowly: "Call me Macalaurë."

Elgalad loosed a long breath.  
"Then I w-will be honored to take thee, Lord M-Maglor."

He saw the surprise in the silver eyes. The Fëanorion took a step forward, intent as a hunter.  
"How knowest thou my name?"

"My..m-my lord told m-me of thee long ago. And...I know th-thy son."

They stared at one another.  
" He looks like th-thee." Elgalad answered the question as it formed on Maglor's lips.  
"His name is Tindómion."

His own anguish evaporated for a while. Here was some-one he had first heard of when he was a child. Later, he had met Tindómion and come to know him as a friend, recognizing the agelong pain in him. Glorfindel had said once:  
_ "He made an oath to find his father, yet love and hate are so intermingled in him that it is well that he has not."_

Maglor, second son of Fëanor; a tragic legend.  
_ "He resembled his father more than any of them, but he was the gentlest of all." _  
Yet he had slain his own kin, raped and engendered a son the image of him save for the bronze of his hair.

"Tindómion." Maglor seemed to taste the name. There was such longing in his eyes that Elgalad wanted to reach out and embrace him.

"H-His friends call h-him Istelion."

Slender fingers covered the passion which blazed bright as the sun across the haunted white face, and Maglor bowed his head.

Elgalad refused to ride if Maglor walked, and so they walked together as Elgalad told him all he knew of Tindómion.

"I was many times in Imladris, though m-my home is Mirkwood, the great forest across the m-mountains....my p-prince, Legolas, traveled to Imladris at t-times, and I w-would accompany him." He was silent for a moment and then went on: "They were very k-kind to me."

Maglor had never heard an Elf speak with that strange stumble over words, but with the soft voice it was oddly endearing. It enhanced the impression of youthfulness, only belied when his eyes left the face, and noted the warrior-hardness of the tall form.

"Then knowest thou Elrond?" he asked.

"I know h-him, yes. I know L-Lord Glorfindel b-better."

"I thought the Innkeep in Bree was mistaken," Maglor stopped in one stride. "Glorfindel? But he died in Gondolin."

Elgalad turned back. "Yes," he agreed. "He returned t-to Middle-earth. He d-dwells in Imladris now."

"Have any other Elves ever returned?" There was yearning in Maglor's voice, and he knew Elgalad heard it.

"N-No, lord. Only h-he."

  
~~~

Memory...Tirion, in the oval arena where the Noldor competed in games and races of athletic prowess. Two young Eldar on the threshold of adulthood, one with gold hair and the other black. Macalaurë had been watching Maitimo and Findekáno, seeing the intimacy between them which they strove to hide. He saw the same in these two as they used their young bodies as weapon's, swift, strong, half-playful. Nolofinwë was standing not far away, a faint smile on his mouth. Macalaurë saw it fade, and saw why. He thought that he understood; he did not, not then. Like all his people he believed his father and eldest uncle had no love for one another.

''Laurëfindë and Ektello, is it not?'' Fëanáro spoke to his half-brother, his eyes fixed on the two Elves.  
For a moment, Macalaurë thought his uncle would not reply. He saw a faint flush on the high cheeks. His father's brief smile held a peculiar, almost intimate mockery.

''Yes.'' The answer was clipped.

Laurëfindë flipped Ektello in one neat move and straddled him, laughing, his hair streaming down across the other's face.

"Very neat, Golden One." Fëanáro's praise brought his head up, cheeks flushed, eyes gleaming. Macalaurë watched the color bloom deeper over his face. He rose and held out his hand to Ektello.

" I thank thee." He was discomfited and it showed; his gaiety and assurance suddenly vanished. Nolofinwë's head turned and his expression held anger.

"There is great promise in thee."  
The eyes of the half-brothers met and Fëanáro strode away in a whirl of jet hair and fierce energy. He glanced back once over his shoulder at Nolofinwë, the corners of his mouth folded into a smile. Macalaurë walked to the pair and began to speak to them of inconsequential matters. When he looked around, his uncle had vanished.

There was so much he had not understand then, in his innocence.

_Did he touch all of us? _

~~~

"Perhaps Mandos is merciful," he whispered. "It is growing dark, shall we stop for a while?"

They left the road, gathering twigs for a small fire and unpacking their food. Close by a small stream spoke quietly to itself, and Elgalad rose and laved his hands. Maglor settled his harp before him and his fingers drew a tune out of the night. He looked up seeing that the clear eyes were watching him, unnameable emotions vivid as blood on his lovely countenance. His hands stilled the strings.

''The _Noldolantë,_'' Elgalad murmured. "Yes." Maglor watched the vulnerable, open expression, saw the pain.

''My lord p-played it to me...a l-long time ago."

"Better it were forgotten." Maglor opened his right hand, and the firelight showed the scar on his palm forever burned there. Elgalad's eyes widened as he leaned forward.  
''I am surprised that a Silvan Prince would sing the _Noldolantë._"

Elgalad shook his head. "Legolas does n-not. His father was Iathrim." Maglor looked away.  
"When I w-was very young...My L-Lord played it to m-me. He is _ Golodh._" His head dropped, his features withdrew from the light.

''Who is thy lord, then?'' Maglor asked gently.

Elgalad reached for a broken branch, thrust it into the fire.  
''My h-home is the Great Wood, but I was not b-born there. They t-took me in when I was y-young. My L-Lord, who raised m-me, judged I w-would be safer th-there.''

''Thy parents are dead?''

''They d-died in Edhellond, an Elf Haven f-far in the south. My L-Lord raised m-me and brought me n-north.''  
Elgalad's eyes were still downcast, but the Fëanorion did not need to see them. He poured mead into a cup.  
''Drink.'' He knelt beside Elgalad. "Is he dead also?"

That did bring the silver head up.  
"_ No !_'' It was both a challenge and a denial. Maglor frowned.  
"He took m-me to the r-realm of Thranduil in M-Mirkwood, and left m-me...''

This, then, was the pain.

''Why did he leave thee?"

''I...h-he had to...'' The words were broken cadences of sound. ''He ...is not f-free. He is a s-slave of...Mordor.''

"I thought he was Noldo...'' Maglor froze.

A Noldo who was a servant of Sauron...

His voice sounded as if it came from very far away when he spoke.  
"Did he have violet eyes? Black designs drawn on his arms and back?''

"Thou hast _seen_ him?" Elgalad's voice swooped upward with amazed joy.

Maglor did not even know he moved until his dagger was at the other's throat. He wrapped the bright hair about his hand and wrenched back Elgalad's head.  
''Who is he? _What is his name?_?''

Enormous, shocked eyes held his own and he saw, black against white, the tiny rill of blood which wept from under the point of the blade.

_Kinslayer...Kinslayer..._

The knife fell from his fingers, the steel driving point down in the turf.  
''Elgalad..." Horror at his violence was ice in his veins. "I am sorry...but I must know... _ I must know whom he is! _''

And he heard the voice say, huskily:  
''Dost thou l-love him t-too?''

''_What ?_''

''He r-raised me, taught me...he let m-me go because he... s-said...the Dark Lord would kill me, and he w-would not allow that !" The words spilled out in a torrent of passion. "He saved m-me, and gave m-me my life !"

_ Gave me my life..._

A rich, lilting voice out of the distant past, a smile lifting one corner of that modeled mouth. Violet eyes glinting with remembered seduction.  
_ ''Thou art free." _

Maglor pushed his hands into his hair and stared into Elgalad's dew-grey eyes. The night held it's dark breath, the moon shone down in remote curiosity.

''He t-told me he saved another Elf f-from Sauron once." Elgalad broke the silence with an incredulous whisper. "It was th-thee, was it n-not?" ~

~~~


	60. The Second Oath

  
~ The fair face before Maglor blurred in the glow of the fire, became one like a mask beaten out of metal, enameled in white. The grey eyes darkened into lustrous purple, gleaming with desire.

_He t-told me he saved another Elf f-from Sauron once..._

A a pocket of pitch hissed. The vision dissolved like mist. Elgalad was gazing at him in wonder. Blood was clotting at the hollow of his throat.

_ Kinslayer..._

Maglor's hand came up, he drew a fingertip over the small cut.  
''I am sorry.'' His voice broke penitently.

''I do not understand," Elgalad sounded bewildered. ''Did...he n-not save thee?''

Maglor retrieved the cup, poured more mead. His hands, he saw, with surprise, were steady as stone.  
''He released me, yes.'' He used a little of the wine to wipe the cut, feeling the pulse beat there, then closed Elgalad's hands around the cup.  
''He took me from torture, gave me back a life I did not want.''  
He saw the gentle smile begin on the corners of Elgalad's mouth, as if something were confirmed in him.

''He is n-not evil.''

Maglor frowned, caught back hot words with an effort and said carefully:  
''What did he do to thee?''

''I have s-said. He raised me. We l-lived in the south.'' The grey eyes glowed with memories which held trust, pleasure. ''He taught me l-lore, to read, to write, to speak the tongues of Elves and M-men, history, of Valinor, of the Silmarilli, to hunt game, cook, cure pelts, to p-play the flute, a harp...''

Maglor drew his fingers back through his hair.  
''He was thy lover?''

A tide of color darkened Elgalad's face. ''_No,_'' he said. ''I wish he had been. He w-was my mentor, my guardian, my teacher...He saved m-my life! And I know h-he was punished for it.''

Maglor tilted his head, his eyes narrowing.  
''Who punished him?''

''He showed me what was d-done to him, what would happen to m-me if...'' Maglor saw the shudder, heard the breath come unsteadily.  
''He _saved thee !_" he cried. "Why dost thou h-hate him?''

''I have vowed to kill him,'' Maglor flashed. His wrath was an inferno of inconsistencies within him, and he was shaking with them.

''Then thou wilt have to kill me too,'' Elgalad said flatly.

Not again...not again! Another oath made without thought of what it might mean. The Silmaril scar stung harshly, and he clenched his hand.

_ Kinslayer..._

He spun away, went to where he had laid his pack, rolled up the soft hide, laced his harp into it's leather covering and slung both straps over his shoulders.

''Stay away from me,'' he said curtly. ''I warn thee, I do not wish to kill thee, but as thou must know, if thou hast learned so much lore, I have killed Elves before. I have vowed to kill thy so-called _lord!_'' He spat the title through his teeth, turned away and found Elgalad before him, resolve stamped on his face.  
''Another Oath? My words were no whisper into the w-wind, either, Lord Maglor! I w-will follow thee!''

''Then thou wilt die.''

''There are w-worse things than d-death. To l-live without the one the lovest is a living d-death!'' Elgalad's eyes held pain. ''I am no-one! I will just be another Elf thou h-hast slain, like so m-many others !''

_ I am no-one_

The words echoed through his thoughts; violet eyes held a self-mocking smile.

_I am nothing._

Maglor flinched.

''And where w-wilt thou go? Mordor? For that is w-where my lord will be now there is war. Thou shalt be taken by the D-Dark Lord again !''

_Oh, Eru, no..._  
He tasted orc filth again for a moment, felt suffocating pain and his mind spun toward madness.

''I cannot recant my Oath! I know that better than any other!''

''Then thou m-must also know that some Oaths should n-never be spoken, are better broken,'' Elgalad threw at him. Maglor turned away and once again, the younger Elf interposed himself. The Fëanorion raised his arm, saw the firm chin lift in resolve and swayed aside, his cloak brushing the other as he strode away. When Elgalad caught up with him again he did thrust him away.

''Do we d-dance thus every step of the w-way?'' Elgalad challenged. ''I will dog thy footsteps, I will n-not let thee do this! For my L-Lord, and for _thine own sake!_ Let m-me take thee to Imladris! Please, thou art so c-close to thy son!''

_ My son, my son. _  
''I will not pull him into this Oath I swore before I even knew I had a son ! I have blighted his life enough without ever seeing him,'' Maglor hissed the words into the lovely, valiant face. ''Perhaps it is doomed that I die in Mordor! But I will die at least attempting to fulfill this vow! I should have ended my life when Maedhros took his!''

''Then _I_ will go to Imladris! Dost thou n-not think that thy son will not c-come after thee when he knows what thou d-doth purpose?''

''Then go !'' Maglor shouted.

_Yes. He must go. I fear what I might do to him. More blood on my hands, and innocent at that. He may be deceived by his Lord, but he is not tainted, and I must not harm him._

He walked away.

Torn, Elgalad watched him, looked up at the stars, hesitating only a moment, before he sped back to the camp, putting out the fire, readying his mount.

_He will have to cross the mountains, and he is on foot. I must get to Imladris!_

He could have put an arrow into Maglor's back from here; it did not even cross his mind. He swung the horse toward the east, and set it to a run.

_My lord, what didst thou do, that he should hate thee so?_

***

~ Water from the snows of the Hithaeglir swelled the Bruinen to a torrent, swirling about Suldal's slender legs, and Elgalad patted the horse's neck, soothing him across. It was dark under the trees beyond, but coming out of their shadow, Elgalad saw a light shining above him.

"Elgalad."  
It was Glorfindel astride white Asfaloth, his aura bright and blazing in the gloom of the late afternoon. There was no surprise in his voice, only a hint of resignation.

"Glorfindel!" Relief drenched him. He leaned forward and reached out. "I saw _M-Maglor_ on the road !"

  
The heads of the cliffs were buried in low cloud. Fingers of mist trailed down to meld with the falling waters. A dark cold dusk, but already primroses and wind-flowers dotted the grass, and the House of Elrond glowed with welcoming lights.

Elrond turned from his contemplation of the weaving flames of the fire.  
A silence had fallen after Elgalad had recounted his tale to the three in the room, for Tindómion had come swiftly when called.

''He was captured by Sauron...''  
Elrond shook his head and there was sorrow in his voice for some-one he had loved. ''That time in Lindon, Istelion, that was what thou didst feel. And this..slave...released him. And he wishes to kill him....'' His eyes turned to Glorfindel, brows lifting.

''I do not understand,'' Elgalad pleaded. ''My Lord saved h-him !''

''Yes, Elgalad," Glorfindel murmured. "And I know why Maglor would hate him."

Elrond turned to Tindómion, who was holding himself like a taut bow.  
''Istelion, I release thee from Imladris to find thy father. Glorfindel, go with him. Maglor committed many crimes, but he and Maedhros scared for Elros and I. Find him.''

Tindómion swung toward the door.

''I will come,'' Elgalad stated.

"Yes," Glorfindel affirmed. "Thou shalt. Take us to where thou didst part from Maglor."

~~~

Packs were readied, the horses re-shod, gear checked. They wore supple mail under their traveling clothes and carried dried food to expedite the speed of their journey. As a wan sun rose in the east, they left Imladris.

They hardly spoke. The pound of the horses hooves was smooth and light over the turf, the riders hair streamed back in the wind. Mortal eyes beholding them might have thought them somehow both distant and imminent, of the world, yet remote, lights shining through a torn curtain into a brilliant, terrible past.

At times each would turn off the path searching for any sign of old fires, the skins of coney or grouse feathers discarded, yet they did not stray far from the road.  
Unless Maglor were willing to chance the untrodden peaks of the Towers of Mist, he would make for the Redhorn Pass, or the far southern gap of Rohan, which was closer to Mordor. They might have passed him already, but Glorfindel judged it better to find where Elgalad had parted from him and begin from there, rather than quarter the wild lands in faint hope of finding him.

''We are close.'' Elgalad slowed and pointed.

The sky was grey. All that day a cloud-bank had been spreading westward, chasing the sun. Glorfindel watched it, knowing this was no natural weather of Arda. That dark fume was brewed in Orodruin, to cover the lands and stifle hope. Inexorably it moved, devouring the early stars.

''There, that stand of t-trees.'' Elgalad turned off the road, casting about, then raised a hand; the others joined him.  
The remains of ash showed where a small fire had burned. As he had always been taught, Elgalad had dug a fire-pit, but in his haste had not covered it. Now he was grateful for this lapse.

Tindómion leaped to the grass. His eyes shone even in the gloom as he looked around, took a deep breath as if he could taste the essence of his father here still.

''We will camp here,'' Glorfindel laid a hand on his shoulder.

''I cannot stop. I _cannot ! _'' The protest was an intense whisper.

"Maglor is on foot.''

For a moment, Tindómion resisted and then he sighed and nodded.

Elgalad moved silently to make a fire. The flames seemed pressed down by the stifling sky but it's glow showed Tindomion's face, and he was struck again by how alike father and son were. As the Fëanorion drew the leather covering from his lap-harp and bent over it, the resemblance was even more pronounced.

''He played that.''  
The words brought Tindomion's head up.

''How did he look?'' In the question Elgalad felt the ache of yearning he was so very familiar with.

Glorfindel stood at the edge of the circle of firelight, his eyes seeming to grow brighter and brighter as a challenge against the rising storm in the East. He glanced across as Elgalad spoke:  
''He l-looked as one whom has suffered, yet endured. H-he is strong, tall, his c-countenance is thine, his eyes are like thine, bright as burning silver. ''

''We all burned once,'' Glorfindel murmured. "Some still do, even in these latter days." He smiled at Tindómion. "Some always will – to the end."

"I was afraid," Tindómion admitted. "I thought he would be ruined, worn to a shadow." He came to his feet and faced Glorfindel. "And so – he survived even torture by Sauron, and was released by the one we captured in the siege of Barad-dûr. Whom he wishes to kill. And thou knowest why."

"Yes," Glorfindel replied. "I know why." ~

~~~

 


	61. At The Apex Of Doom

  
"I do not know for certain," Glorfindel amended. "but I can guess well enough knowing thy family. At the simplest, we can hate those we are beholden to. But it is not that alone. Nothing is ever so simple with the Fëanorions."   
"Elrond was right. Maglor was taken prisoner before Ar-Pharazôn's forces landed at Umbar and Sauron went to Númenor. We know that thrall hated his master, and defied him when he could. He fought with us in that last battle on the slopes of Orodruin, he saved Legolas' life long ago. He took Elgalad to Mirkwood and warned him of an attack, told him to leave." Turning, his eyes met the soft grey ones. "I do not believe he sent thee away because he felt nothing. That is in thy mind, is it not?"  
  
"I w-was foolish...how c-could he leave the D-Dark Lord? I w-wanted to believe it."  
  
"He cares, or he would have forgotten thee. Istelion, thou knowest what thy father suffered. The that thrall used to heal him were extreme, but effective. They touched thee also."   
  
Tindómion ran his hands over his face. Elgalad watched uncomprehendingly as Glorfindel went on:  
"Sauron touched thee in Ost-in-Edhil, gave thee that ring, prentice work, to entrap Gil-galad. The Shadow was on thee after, but thou didst resist it and we destroyed that ring. Hells, it was only practice in the craft ! He may have found Maglor through thee, sensed his blood..."  
  
"Ah, no !"   
  
"The blame is not on thy shoulders. He was found and tortured. What is strong enough to keep us from death? Love – or hate."   
  
Tindómion said: "The thrall seduced my father. That was what I felt. After the torment..."   
  
Elgalad came to his feet, his lips parted, blood washing into his face.  
  
''He forced his mind and body to awaken, to hate – to live.'' Glorfindel nodded.   
  
"He knew me. When he saw me in Gil's pavilion, I felt something. Hells !" Tindómion was poised on the edge of violence. "And my father made another Oath..! That," he ground out savagely, "must have been a grand seduction !"   
  
"More than that," Glorfindel said. "There was care."   
  
Elgalad, after a frozen moment, cried: "He would n-never touch _m-me !_" and turned away, staring toward the east. "I envy L-Lord Maglor."  
  
"Thou hast hated thy Lord as well as loved him." Glorfindel put an arm about the rigid shoulders.   
  
"I c-cannot hate h-him," Elgalad said simply. "But I d-do not understand why seducing M-Maglor would help h-him to live."   
  
Glorfindel glanced at Tindómion and saw the fire coil back into his soul, the silver eyes showed a sudden tenderness.   
  
''Innocence. That what thy lord saw in thee, Elgalad." Glorfindel stood before him, cupped his face between both hands. "But think about it. Maglor lost all. I think he was dying, and life and hate were forced back into him – he owes thy Lord his life, a bitter, lonely life. He surrendered to some-one and the Noldor do not easily abdicate their pride, do they, Istelion?"   
  
"No."   
  
Glorfindel did not tell Elgalad that he knew just how potent was that strange Elf's sensuality, as if it had been cultivated like an exotic bloom in a desert land. It was the only part of him no-one could enslave – his passion.   
  
_He reminded me of Fëanor. That was why I surrendered. _   
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
On the forty and third day of Echuir, on the fields of the Pelennor, the Rohirrim and Aragorn, Heir of Elendil, leading a force of captured Corsair ships out of Umbar and the Army of the Dead from beneath Dwimoberg , smashed the forces of Mordor which had been besieging the city of Kings.  
  
Vanimórë had been sent down Ithilien with warriors out of Rhun. For months and longer, troops had been marching to the Black Land, summoned by their Overlord. Mordor, with its mournful, ashen plains was no place to situate great armies, and many remained encamped beyond, around the shoulders of the Ered Lithui. Even the hearts of men of the Darkness became oppressed by the atmosphere which emanated from Barad-dûr, and few entered the Morannon without misgiving. When the Witchking lead his forces out of Minas Morgul, Vanimórë was ordered to ride south, after them.  
  
The fume which Orodruin belched forth slowly covered the sky, made day into twilight; the birds and beasts stilled and only the sound of the army disturbed the silence.  
  
''Wait for my orders,'' Vanimórë commanded, for he wished time to read the battle, which seemed a foregone conclusion. ''I will deploy thee when I have seen what passes.''  
  
Despair had taken the city, Denethor the Steward had fallen into madness; Sauron had twisted the visions he read in the Palantir and shown him overwhelming defeat and death.   
  
Rohan had not come. The Captains of the Outlands were drawn into the great walls, including Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, and his Swan Knights, the only force of cavalry Gondor possessed, which was why Rohan's aid was so vital. Denethor's youngest son Faramir, had been brought into the city dying as were many others, of a sickness they called the Black Breath. It came from the Nazgûl under it people would fall into a sleep and passed into death.  
  
Now a red fire lit the underside of the black cloud which blanketed the sky; dawn was not far off.  
  
Vanimórë sent back a command to halt, and rode ahead.  
  
_ My thanks, father, even I can scarce read a battle I cannot see._ The din of conflict was a great groan: the clash of weapons, the cries of Men, orcs and beasts, the thud of ram upon stone, mingled in a roaring sigh; a wave of sound, agony and blood-lust co-mingled.  
  
_They have brought up Grond._ He tilted his head, isolating that huge repetitive thudding _ For the gate._   
  
There was a sudden flash in the distance as if an upward strike of lightning had sprung from the earth, and the city shone white, the Tower of Ecthelion a spear of silver. A great boom rolled through the heavy air.  
  
Urging his horse on, Vanimórë suddenly paused again, as many things seemed to happen at once.  
  
The first intimation of change was so tenuous that he thought he imagined it. For days the wind had been blowing from the east, carrying that darkening cloud layer across the free lands. Now what touched his face held the faintest scent of brine.  
  
_The wind has veered to the south._  
He sat rigid, eyes blazing through the slits of the full-face helm, then rose in his stirrups as a noise came to his ears. Far away it sounded, and then was repeated, echoing from the great bulk of Mindolluin. Horns...Horn calls blown in battle-challenge.  
  
Light began to grow, the wind strengthening, the clouds rolling and lifting, and far to the north-west he saw the glint of armor; thunder rippled through the ground and his mount curveted.  
  
''Rohan,'' he said through his teeth, a sudden fierce gleam of white showing in a smile. Rohan, pouring through the Outwalls like a storm wave and as unstoppable, to crash against the stricken and horrified hosts of Mordor.  
  
''Lord?'' One of the Easterling's rode up beside him. ''What orders?'' His dark eyes were bright.  
  
''We watch,'' Vanimórë said calmly. ''As I said.'' He saw the surprise and turned back. "Wait for me.'' He urged his stallion into a run.   
And he watched.  
  
From the south had come the tribes of the Harad, some with the great Mumakil, on which war-towers were mounted, ponderously swaying, bristling with archers. These, for the moment, were in reserve. Too large to join the siege of the city, they were terrible in use on open plains, and kept for that purpose.  
  
Still Vanimórë watched as the fury of the Northmen astride their great, clean-limbed horses smashed through the orcs, a sight at which he smiled in his heart, though no expression stirred the gravity of his features. Yet he saw their fury might betray them, for their numbers were not as great as the hosts of the Haradhrim and Variags. More strength waited at Osgiliath, and was moving south even now. Then something tugged at his mind, dragging his eyes towards the river. He turned his mount and rode to the Easterling Chieftain.  
  
''Make for the Harlond, there, the river where it comes close to the city.''  
  
The man saluting, turned and went to his people. Vanimórë turned his head once more and with his far-sighted eyes he watched the Witchking descend upon a rider of the Rohirrim, and thus witnessed a prophecy long ago spoken by Glorfindel.  
  
_ Not by the hand of man shall he fall._  
  
Perhaps the Lord of the Nazgûl did not know that the slender warrior who stood between him and the body of the dying king was a woman, but Vanimórë did. He was an acute observer.  
  
He did not know of the prophecy, but he had heard the Witchking boast that no man could harm him, and the shriek of the wraith-Lord's departing soul filled him with such grim satisfaction that he could have laughed.   
  
Gothmog, Lieutenant of Morgul, flung the arriving forces from Osgiliath into the battle. The ground trembled under the impact of the Mumakil; on open land they could attain great speed for their size, and nothing could withstand such weight. The horsemen of Rohan formed up to charge, and it was one of the most courageous acts Vanimórë had ever witnessed. His heart acclaimed such valor, even as he saw horses and riders flung aside, trampled into bloody smears in the ground. And still something pulled his eyes toward the Anduin.  
  
He heard the first shouts go up.  
  
He knew of course, that Sauron had called on the Corsairs of Umbar. If they came it would be because the coastal lands of Belfalas, the Lebennin and the Ethir were lying behind them in smoke and ruin. And now, the voices from the city walls cried out that Umbar had indeed come, that doom was upon them and that all must retreat back to the walls.  
  
The Rohirrim rallied. They would fight to the bitter end, and the end must indeed be close now, thought Vanimórë. The sunlight was shafting down through rain showers, the green of the grass, the red of blood, the glint of armor was shockingly bright after the gloom, but such a reprieve could not last.  
  
He rode on closer to the city, passing the swathe of the Mumakil charge, the wreckage of war towers, bodies, both Haradhrim and Rohirrim and Men of Gondor, brothers in death.  
  
And then incredibly, came the ripple of joyous laughter, a blowing of trumpets and a ringing of bells within the walls of Minas Tirith. Though from where he was he could see nothing, Vanimórë felt something ancient, and nonliving. A shadow poured from the direction of the river, but within it were Men; for so did Aragorn come leading an army of the Dead, and a great strength of people from the southern fiefs, and his companions, Rangers of the North, Legolas of the Great Wood, Gimli, Dwarf of Erebor, and the twin sons of Elrond, Elladan and Elrohir.  
  
But the battle was not yet over. Vanimórë knew the Southrons and Easterlings as well as any alive. They were a fierce and warlike people, and though the orcs might flee, these men would not. They would stand and die and ask for no quarter.  
  
He turned back, a nameless, anonymous figure in black mail As yet he had raised no stroke in this battle and would not, unless utterly compelled; it was enough to witness it. Was it foolish to feel hope? Even if the Men of the West won the day, beyond the walls of Mordor lay thousands of orcs, as yet held back by their Master.  
  
_No, do not hope - but watch. Revel in it, brief though it may be..._   
  
Again he glanced back, holding his warhorse on a tight rein, and it was then he saw the banner which was carried above the arrivals on the Black Ships. He knew those emblems, though it was nigh on a thousand years since he had seen them: A White Tree, emblem of Gondor, of course, but about it seven stars, and above a high crown.  
  
_ Elendil? But that line ended long ago. _   
  
He wondered if some leader of Men dared to display those symbols as a rallying cry to his comrades in arms. Much was kept from him by Sauron, and his business was in the East or South, not in the North.   
  
A trumpeting bellow sounded as one of the huge Mumak charged toward the core of the battle, and he watched with a faint smile as a tall, lithe figure with flowing wheaten hair detached himself and ran toward it.  
It was an act of foolhardy courage he could appreciate. As if the beast were a tree the Elf leaped and swung himself effortlessly up the flanks and onto the back, deftly dodging the Haradhrim who tried to dislodge him. There was a flash of steel and the war-tower of lashed reeds tilted and toppled, the Elf following its downward drag up to the great head of the Mumak . Balancing gracefully, he nocked triple arrows with hands that blurred, and released them to punch through the back of the beasts skull into the brain. Its legs crumpled and as it went down. The warrior glided down the trunk and back to the earth.   
  
Vanimore surprised himself with a low laugh.  
_ Thranduilion, it has been a long time. Bravo, beauty._   
He raised his gauntleted hand in salute and across the leagues, for a moment, their eyes met.   
  
The call in his mind was imperative. He set his teeth, amusement fading as he obeyed the command to ride back to Mordor. ~   
  
  
  
~~~

~~~


	62. The Chains That Bound Me

~ Ten days passed between the Battles of the Pelennor and the Morannon, when Sauron emptied his land. Ten days – culminating in the downfall of the Dark Lord and the destruction of the One Ring.   
  
Vanimórë rode through an empty Ithilien with Sauron's rage in his mind tightening like the pressure of a clenching fist. The Dark Lord's mind-voice sounded contemptuous at the march of the Men of the West with an army smaller than the Vanguard of that of Númenor in its power. But underlying the arrogance Vanimórë caught the hints of doubt, especially at the revelation that an heir of Elendil lived.   
Beyond the Ered Lithui more forces from Rhun awaited orders, and Vanimórë was sent to them. He was to bring them down to encompass the army of the West and smash them utterly before the Morannon.   
  
His orders were never to be completed.   
  
Vanimórë gathered his army and rode along the mournful skirts of the Ash Mountains, locked within the steel which must armor him from now until the End. All his life he had clasped to him the knowledge that freedom existed somewhere, even if it were beyond his reach. Now he would see it snuffed out forever. He had no illusions as to what position he would occupy in Sauron's world empire: an unwilling enforcer of the Dark Lord's will. And still a slave.  
  
_ I am the Slave of Sauron, nothing else. _   
  
There was no place in him for hope, there was no future but that which his father would fashion.   
  
If he permitted himself to think on it, he knew he would go mad.  
  
_ Live through one moment, then the next. _   
  
He knew he truly would fall into madness when Sauron ripped the life from those Elves he captured. And then – he did not know what he would become.   
  
It came from nowhere: a thunderclap on his mind, a cry of outrage and fear. Images exploded through Vanimórë's mind so shatteringly strong that he reflexively hauled on his stallion's reins. The horse reared, screaming.   
  
_ The Sammath Naur...two small beings silhouetted against the ember light, the One Ring glowing white with power, letters of red screaming an ancient vow...  
  
** One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all, and in the Darkness...**_   
  
The sun detonated, the unearthly shriek tore him apart. He was dead and blind, obliterated in that last clangor of rage...  
  
Silence,like the peace after the ending of the world...  
  
The clouds sent up by Orodruin brought lightning storms flickering overhead, torrents of rain drenched the motionless figure in black armor who lay on the flat land north of the Ashen Mountains.  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
He felt, from a vast distance, the touch of something on his face. He tried to ignore it, to remain in that dark, warm place of unconsciousness. But he only knew how to fight, and so he struggled to wake and face what must be faced.   
  
Water was dripping through the eye-slot of his helm. Wondering why he was sleeping in the rain in full armor, he raised himself to his knees, tugging off the helm. The earth reeled. He dug his fingers into the ground, took two deep breaths, and cautiously opened his eyes.   
  
He was alone. To the south, shrouded in mist, loomed the Ered Lithui. Northward, the battle plain was misted with rain, but it was ceasing, distant thunder marching away east.  
  
_Where are...? _ He came to his feet, planting them firmly as a cool wind blew through his mind, disorienting him.   
  
Something...there was...something missing.  
  
Vanimórë staggered, feeling peculiarly weightless. He wondered if he had been struck on the helm.  
  
_Oh. My army is missing...Where in the Hells...?_   
  
He said, flatly: "Master?"  
  
Even after the destruction of Númenor, after the Last Alliance, he had been aware of Sauron's presence, a seed in his mind which would grow into the clinging steel vine that enwrapped him.  
  
His mouth set. He waited.  
  
Nothing.  
  
_ What...?_   
  
Brutally, he plunged within himself, groping through the deeps of his soul. He was almost alarmed at what he found, or rather did _not_ find.  
  
Because he found...nothing.  
  
And then the wind had a name, and there was nothing to cage it.   
  
It was called freedom.  
  
_ He has gone... ._   
  
He found himself on his knees, braced against the wet earth, breathing harshly as he rummaging savagely through his innermost self to find that presence which had been there since his very birth. He was like a man born in a windowless room who suddenly finds an open door and steps forth into all that lies beyond, and stands in shock, never having known that anything existed beyond it.   
  
_ He has gone. _   
  
_Carefully...go carefully. Do not hope...he cannot be truly gone...but there is nothing..._   
  
He rose casting around, looking for anything to tell him what had happened.   
  
_ I must know ! _   
  
Tilting his head he listened, hearing distant voices borne on the wind. They were speaking in Westron and he closed his eyes, concentrating on the texture of their minds. The exhilaration was unmistakable.   
  
_ They **won?**_  
  
He could not believe it, and if he stayed here, he would be seen. The low visibility aided him as he slipped toward the south-west. He had to know, before he went mad with this unfamiliar, alien sense of release, he had to _know._   
  
There was an army encamped beyond the Morannon and down into Ithilien. As the sun dipped, Vanimórë stealthily moved closer, saw the pennons: the great banner of Elendil, the White Horse upon green of Rohan, the Ship and Swan of the principality of Dol Amroth, and others of Gondor's Outlands.   
  
Narchost and Carchost, the Morannon itself, were destroyed. Shock froze Vanimórë motionless. Rubble lay everywhere as if propelled outward by some vast force. Fires sprang up as dusk fell, and pyres burned – orc carcasses from the stench – which the winds carried toward Mordor.   
  
On the edge of the Dead Marshes, Vanimórë stood grappling with the impossible, yet even the sights he had seen were no clearer message to him than the weight he had borne all his years now gone from his soul.   
  
_The Ring – the One Ring, it was taken to Orodruin ! _   
  
It had vanished so long ago, and his father had not told him it had been found.   
  
_ Bloody Hells! Some-one destroyed it...! _   
  
He turned away, his heart bounding like a stag, and set his face north. Dale, Erebor, Mirkwood and Lothlórien had all been targeted for attacks. He had not lead any of them. After Elgalad had gone, Sauron had sent him to meet the men of Rhun.   
  
He ran. He would keep along Anduin, skirting the Brown Lands before heading north east. It was a journey he had made before, and long ago with Elgalad...Elgalad, whom he had told to go to the Havens.   
What a bitter thought.   
  
Like a refrain, the words repeated themselves in his mind. _ Freedomfreedomfreedom. _ And he could not believe it, not truly, but Sauron was gone. Nothing remained. Nothing but the thousands of years of memories, which would never fade.  
  
A thrill took him and he laughed aloud, then abruptly sobered. It would be too easy to slide into the madness of liberty.  
  
_ And what will I do? Stay alive. I have no pressing desire to join Morgoth and my father in the Void. Stay alive, go far south perhaps...The lands will be in turmoil, there is room for me there, things to do. I know nothing else but what I have always done..._   
  
He did not reach out to Elgalad's mind. He might have departed already on one of those legendary white ships. Newly free, only precariously sane, Vanimórë did not wish to feel the severance, the emptiness which would be there. He must not regret what he had done, the choices he had made. There had been no other choices open to him.   
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
Elgalad turned in his saddle, a question forming on his lips as he saw that Glorfindel and Tindómion had reined-in their mounts a little behind him.   
  
They were following a sign he had discovered a few days ago, indicating that Maglor had headed south. They were in the region of Dunland but the land seemed empty. The men of the fells, cowed by their defeat at the Hornburg and having sworn never to raise hand against Rohan had retreated into the somber hills.  
  
Elgalad had found the remains of a small fire, and after much searching, the buried pelt of a hare. Maglor either guessed he would be pursued, or was being exceedingly cautious. The fire had been covered by turves, but Elgalad had grown to adulthood with a superb hunter and tracker; he knew what signs to look for.   
  
That had been the same day as the wind changed. Milder airs from the south began to dissipate the dull grey overcast.   
  
They halted, at no signal but something within their souls. The sun's rays fell like lances as if the One hurled his challenge down onto Middle-earth. Glorfindel's eyes flamed blue-white. Twice-born, he sensed Sauron's passing, heard the aetheric scream. There was an utter silence for a long moment, and then birds filled the air with song.   
  
''He is gone!'' Glorfindel leaped from his saddle, his face fierce and triumphant, the storm gold of him burning as he gripped Tindómion's arms. ''Sauron is gone, Istelion!''   
  
''I know.'' They held one another with as much sorrow as gratitude for too much evil had been done, so many had gone, never to return. "Oh, Gil, my king, thy death is avenged!"   
  
But Elgalad, his heart thundering, looked unerringly east.   
  
_My Lord! _   
  
The wind rushed over the lands like a wave. It cast their hair out in billowing cloaks, hiding Elgalad's face as he bowed his head. His heartbeat faltered, the earth seemed to be slipping from under his feet.   
  
Glorfindel released Tindómion and both came to his side.  
''Elgalad! Thou doth feel he is gone?''   
  
''I cannot f-feel his m-mind,'' Elgalad swallowed painfully. ''But he m-must be d-dead.''   
  
Tindómion's heart filled with pity as Elgalad lifted his face to the sky and screamed: ''_No!_''   
  
"Elgalad, we do not know."   
  
"H-He served Sauron, he was close to h-him...!" Elgalad struggled against them, moans forcing themselves through his teeth before he surrendered with a cry that held as much fury as pain.   
  
They held him as he lay, blank eyed, under the eye of the sun, scarcely breathing.   
  
_ Is he dead, thinks't thou? _   
  
_ I cannot tell, Istelion. _  
  
_ And the others? _  
  
_ They are alive._   
But Glorfindel's smile held sadness as he looked down at the still whiteness of Elgalad's face. The evening sun was mellow, birds were singing before they went to roost. It would have been a time of utter peace, but so had birds sung after Gondolin's fall, after the Last Alliance.   
  
His eyes came up on that thought. He murmured, aloud: "He did not die _then._"   
  
"No," Tindómion said as softly.   
  
_ Truly I do not know, it would depend on many things, how close he was to Sauron. And he was a warrior, he may not have been in Mordor, or he may be dead in battle as so many others. Though that would surprise me. _   
  
_ Can we give him that hope? _   
  
Glorfindel said: "Can we not?"   
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
He wanted never to open his eyes, wanted to keep sinking down so that if he went far enough he might find, in the darkness, the one who was gone, see the violet eyes smile at him, run into the arms that would hold him and never let him go. He wanted to go back to the meadows of childhood, feeling the grass under his feet as he flung himself toward the tall black clad figure who was everything.   
He sped laughing, calling out, but now his Lord watched him, remote and regretful, and lifted his hand and turned away.   
  
Elgalad's heart beat like a wounded bird in his breast and then the wings strengthened, soared upwards through his soul.   
  
_ My Lord!_   
  
He thrust himself to his feet.  
  
" My Lord! " And perhaps because he so longed to hear it, he heard, like a distant trump, one word formed of emotion:   
**Freedom.**  
  
His eyes flashed into focus, and he found himself gazing into Glorfindel's ice-blue ones. A hand touched his shoulder, another tilted wine to his lips and he drank.   
  
''He lives?'' Glorfindel asked.   
  
Elgalad sought, reaching out. He still thrummed with that glorious burst of delight.   
  
''Freedom...'' he whispered. ''Release from bondage... I f-felt him!'' A flush spread over his cheeks, the huge eyes gleamed with life and love again. ''For a moment...He is f-free, he is free!''   
  
Glorfindel smoothed his fingers back over the silvery hair.  
''I felt it," he nodded, and his heart ached to see the hope flame through Elgalad like a star.   
  
  
  
****  
  
  
  
They journeyed on, passing through the Gap of Rohan, which lay well nigh deserted; all its warriors were in Gondor.  
It was then, when they believed that Maglor's steps would take him east, that Tindómion found a sign he had turned north. Instead of the straight-forward route through the Eastfold and Anorien that they believed Maglor would take, his son found a hastily doused fire which indicated that he turned toward Fangorn.   
  
Many fair folk came south to the City of Kings: Galadriel and Celeborn, with their people, Elladan and Elrohir bearing banners of silver, Elrond and his daughter, and with him the Peredhel bore the Scepter of Annúminas which now Aragorn would bear. Glorfindel, Tindómion and Elgalad met them south of Lórien and they spoke long, the Lady of the Golden Wood and Elrond lending their wisdom.   
  
Tindómion and Elgalad would not stray from their course, but Glorfindel bade them wait as he rode to Minas Tirith. After this was done, and he had spoken privately to Legolas, he departed at night to join his companions where they had promised to wait on the south-eastern fringes of Mirkwood.   
  
The last time Elgalad had seen his Lord was at Esgaroth. Perhaps he had been sent to Dale or Erebor instead. Elgalad had to begin somewhere, and Maglor seemed to be heading this way. Perhaps he _knew_ where to go. There seemed no other reason and no other place to go. Mordor was no longer a choice. Glorfindel paused beyond the ruined Morannon, saw only dead ash swirling in a bleak wind, felt echoes of darkness. For a moment he sat astride Asfaloth like a figure made from sunlight, then he turned away and rode north.   
  
Evil had not utterly been defeated, he knew. It never would be. The orcs would scatter and inhabit wild places, the Men of the South and the East would still cling to the old worship of the Dark.  
  
The ending of an Age.  
  
Now the Firstborn would fade or set sail.   
  
Glorfindel would not; he would never step into the gilded cage of Valinor again, abide by the Laws which refused to recognize the fires which burned in Elves. When he had walked in Tirion after his rebirth, it had seemed like a hearth where the fire has gone out. All that was left was the memory of a flame. ~  
  
  
  
~~~

~~~


	63. Following A Dark Star

  
Tindomion fed the small fire with wood, and leaned an arm on his knee, gazing at Elgalad's lovely sleeping face.

''I have _sworn_ to find my father, whom is _sworn_ to kill that strange Elf, _whom_ Elgalad is devoted to. Oh, Hells. Elgalad cannot come between my father and an Oath.''

"Then let us ensure he does not," Glorfindel murmured.

~~~

Elgalad knelt beside the water, filling the skins. The pearly mist of a fine dawn wavered like gossamer over the stream, speckled the mens hair with droplets of moisture.

Glorfindel poured three cups of hot wine, and Tindomion took one, distracted, running fingers through damp bronze hair.  
''Why would my father come this way?''

Glorfindel drank, frowning a little.  
''He is bound in some deep place of the soul to the one who released him from Mordor. As Elgalad knows his lord lived, perhaps Maglor knows – and also knows where he is.''

''I think my lord w-would come north,'' Elgalad agreed, without looking up. ''I thought perhaps he might h-have been sent th-there. If n-not to lead an attack on M-Mirkwood, then Dale or Erebor. I d-do not know, but if h-he is free..." He looked at the two Noldor pleadingly. "We c-cannot let them meet."

"Thy lord is not easy to kill," Glorfindel said, closing his fingers on the braced shoulder. "We will find them. I promise, we will find both of them."

~~~

The last surviving son of Fëanor had felt the passing of Sauron. All those of Elven blood did, but for him, touched by the Dark Lord long ago, the emotion was so visceral, so intense that it left him shaken and trembling. He knew not how Sauron had been destroyed, but he was as certain of it as the earth under his feet.

And yet Elves could not forget and there was no healing to be found on Middle-earth for those broken on the rack of the Dark.

_ And there is no healing for me anywhere, if...if my father, my brothers are banished to the Everlasting Dark for our offenses and the Oath. But Glorfindel was reborn, so perhaps there can be some rest, some mercy, once this Oath is fulfilled?_

His path had been straight, his resolution unshakable. He would go east to Mordor, to certain and terrible death – and then at last there would be rest or oblivion. But his son...oh! he yearned to see his son before he died, yet surely he would be despised and loathed for his acts? How could he expect acceptance or love? He had raped a woman in the madness of his fury and despair.

When his soul felt Sauron's dissolution he sat long in a lonely place, certain that the one he sought must also be dead until gradually, it grew in his heart that he was not.  
He felt the presence still, a touch on the mind, the essence of a living being, not a lost soul. It had been there since his imprisonment in Barad-dûr. It had never faded. He followed his dark star north over the rolling grasslands of Rohan, and past tangled Fangorn. There he struck east towards the Great River, crossing at the same place as the young Eorl had, five hundred years ago, when he brought his Northmen to the aid of Gondor.

But that _No-one's_ presence was not the only one he felt; it began to ease into his consciousness that he was being followed.

At first it was an odd nagging on the very borders of his mind which he shook off, but with each passing day it became more intense. Often he paused, looking back scanning the land, seeing nothing yet feeling tireless pursuit. The words that Elgalad had spoken returned to him. Was he being followed?

He stopped only to hunt, knowing that whoever was behind him must do the same. He buried the feathers or pelts, laid turves over his fires, trying to leave as little a trail as possible.

_ I will not draw my son into this. I have blighted his life enough without ever seeing him. _

He held to that, for he knew too well how sons could follow their fathers...

~~~

The people of the North had much to do in recovering from the assaults upon their lands. There was grief, but also hope in the future now that a King sat upon the throne of Gondor and the Dark Lord had been vanquished.

Without his will guiding them, Sauron's armies scattered, some far north into the Ered Mithrim, others attempted to cross the wild lands between the Grey Mountains and the Great Wood, and were cut down by the wood-Elves.

Vanimórë found Esgaroth a hive of activity, flat barges were on the lake and fishing boats heading north with supplies for Dale and Erebor. There was the sound of hammering, shouted orders, but running through the bustle was a note of optimism, as a man might feel when waking from a debilitating illness knowing he was healing.

Vanimórë would turn eventually travel east and south, down into the Harad. In the aftermath of Sauron's defeat, the nations whom had allied with him would embark on vicious power struggles of rule and conquest. First though, he wished to see how Mirkwood had fared. He had time now, and no orders to follow – and that was a realization so delicious that he wanted time to revel in it, as if he were a child rebelling against a parent. As he was, but now the parent would not punish him.  
He breathed in that astonishing liberty, savoring it. How could any-one understand, who had not lived as a slave from the moment of his birth?

He took a breath of freedom. Ahead of him, the sun flashed from the bands of barrels, and he smiled. Traders had a nose for profit, and this well-guarded train of merchants must have set forth from Dorwinion not long after the end of the War. He watched them travel the last miles toward Esgaroth as the evening touched the lake-waters. He had hardly anything to his name save a little silver, and it did not matter at all. It was as if he were a youth tasting his first goblet of wine, drinking it down in one gulp.

His clothing bore no insignia of Mordor. He had rolled up his mail, strapped it to his back and wore only his breeches and vest of durable leather. He had drawn back his hair and braided it, covering his ears, which was all he could do to hide his blood.  
As the long twilight of the north sank into the mild night, he entered Esgaroth.

The streets were still busy. Torches and braziers burned, tavern doors were flung open spilling light, and the laughter and conversations of men. He ducked into one, weaved past tables and serving wenches to a long oak bar sticky with spilled mead and ale.

''Wine,'' he said, ''Dorwinion. And a room.''  
He laid a small ingot of silver on the counter and the innkeeper, red faced, sweating in the heat of the room, reached for it, then stared at the hilts of the two swords riding on the other's back.

''Mercenary,'' Vanimórë said briefly. ''Hunting orcs.''

''Ah.'' A smile lit the man's face. "You are not the first. Any-one hunting those carrion is welcome."

''Let us hope there is enough for us all, then. I will take the wine to my room.''

The inn-keep called a young woman, and Vanimórë followed her to a sparsely furnished chamber under the eaves. Pitchers of hot and cold water and a platter of roast duck was placed on a table. He closed the door on the girls fascinated face, drank and ate, then stripped to wash.

When he had first come to Esgaroth he had never permitted himself the luxury of imagining freedom. All his life..._all my life!_ he had been a slave and a tool for those more powerful. But there had been times, in the unremitting blackness, when he had experienced respite, feeling Morgoth defeated, his imprisonment by the Alliance, Sud Sicanna and most sweetly, most gently of all, the brief span of time when he had raised Elgalad.

Vanimórë had commanded Men for so long and was so used to obedience that he had come to expect it. He had seen Elgalad's stubbornness, but did not believe he would disobey him.

_I made an Oath to go to Mithlond, knowing I would not keep it. He believed me because he wanted to. It was worth being an oathbreaker to see him safe._

He drew a stool toward him, sat and dragged a bone comb through his wet hair, longing to reach out and feel that loving mind, but Elgalad was gone, or should be. Even were he not, there was still no future for them together. Vanimórë was going into distant places where Elves were legend if they were known at all; lands of Men. There was no place there for the Firstborn, and certainly not for one with Elgalad's sweet nature.

_ A new Age is beginning... _ He lay back, hands behind his head, contemplating how he would fashion his existence now he was unchained...Mo room for regrets...  
_What is done is done, what is gone is gone. But I remain..._

The open window showed the jut of gabled roofs against a sky of summer stars. He gazed at them.

_ What would I have done differently? _

He could have bowed before his masters, toadied to them to alleviate his lot.  
_Never._  
They had pounded him, and he had hardened under the blows, but Elgalad would have done anything for one smile, one touch.  
_Men have a saying, 'You attract bees with honey, not with vinegar.' _ Vanimórë had raised the young Elf with kindness _because_ he knew violence.

_ Fool, do not think of him! He is safe where he is. He can find his mother and father in Aman._  
He closed his eyes to blot out regret, and sought images of beauty in his mind. He drew them out and dwelt upon them until something closed in him from sheer weary relief, and he slept.

~~~

The manacles on his wrists clinked. Blood had run from his wrists, striping down the flesh of his arms. He lay on his stomach, pain flaring through him with each movement, but through the sweat-damp coils of hair he glared hatred.

Above him Melkor stood, and his eyes sucked will and light and courage into them, stripping Vanimórë's soul bare.  
He was everything. He was all there could ever be.

He was **not.**

On his brow the two remaining Silmarilli blazed in denial of he who wore them. Vanimórë knew what they were, their history, who had fashioned them, and the dreadful doom which lay on the Noldor.

There was more than Melkor.

Raising his head a little he gazed at the jewels. Their radiance was preternatural, yet they did not blind, though all the shadows became darker in their presence. Vanimórë could have wept with the grace of seeing them. He wondered if they would burn him if he touched them as they had burned Melkor even through the casket where they had lain when he stole them from Formenos.

**Of course they would! Thou art Nothing, son of Sauron! **

He dropped his face again, closed his eyes. He could feel the native power in his own body healing, lessening the pain. He knew that he had only to wait – and stoke the internal fires of his futile rage .

He turned his head away towards the darkness which lurked in every corner of this somberly splendid room. He was weary, so weary as the pain began to fade. Had he been alone he would have slept, as he always did when he was sent back to his cell. Here, he dared not. He would not show weakness when in Melkor's presence.

_ I will not break for thee. _

A burning hand caught his hair, dragged his neck back so that he thought it would snap. He tasted blood as he bit down on his lip.

** Dost thou defy me still, Slave? ** The voice was a thunder in his mind, crushing hate. Power.  
** Thou SHALT fear, Slave. I am All! **

He swallowed blood from his torn lips, tears of pain broke silently from his eyes, sweat was pushed through the pores of his skin, and still he fought against screaming until unconsciousness claimed him. Only then did Morgoth find release in the unwilling body.

_The child reached out to the flower, his little fingers so very gentle. He smiled in wonder, watching the tear of dew caught like a gem...he looked up, young face brimming with joy, the beauties of Arda pouring into his soul..._

_Now he was on the verge of adulthood, saying that perhaps he was a gift to his lord._

_Incomprehensible innocence. Unconditional love._

_An overwhelming force in his mind, twisting him, burning him, using his own desires to inflame his lust. He had fought it and emerged from blackness to see Elgalad leaning over him, concerned and relieved._

Even in sleep he fought back, and in a part of his mind that remained open like an eye, he thought: _ It never happened...I never touched him..._

_...He looked at what remained of an Elf. He was tied to a wheel, marked with blood and bruises, cuts encrusted with orc-filth...he took him, cleansed him, tended him...Sauron had been summoned forth by Númenor, a chance so impossible it could not be mere coincidence. It had allowed him to bring the Elf back to life. He remembered how he could not save Fëapolda in Angband, and was utterly determined that the last surviving son of Fëanor would not die._  
He heard that golden voice through the night:  
''_This oath I will keep!'' _

~~~

His eyes focused to the soft grey of dawn.  
He poured wine, listening to the noises from of the inn, smelled fresh bread.

_ Maglor, I truly hope that is a dream. Surely thou doth jest?_

He splashed water over his face and chest and bound back his hair, dressing quickly, stopping at the kitchens to ask for a wineskin and dried meat.

''Keep the room for me,'' he told the drowsy-eyed innkeep. ''I will be returning. I am not sure when. Keep it.''

A girl brought the wine and food, staring at him. The short vest revealed the swirling tattoo's across the wide shoulders and down his arms, barbaric and savage.  
"How did the wood-Elves fare?" he asked.

"There was battle, sir, but the enemy were driven off."

Vanimórë nodded. "That is the best news I could hear." Fastening his pack he strode out into the morning. The mist coiled on the glass-still lake, a grebe called as a lover calls in the night.

This day he kept his awareness open, troubled by the dream of Maglor's voice.

Maglor...His eyes narrowed as he paused in his long-striding walk.

_No-one holds a grudge better than a Fëanorion. _

He almost laughed in the bright morning.

_I will not say it will not be good to see thee again, but that it not quite thy purpose is it? Why now I wonder? Well, only a fool would walk to Mordor. And I told thee all those years ago when we lay in silk and sated lust that I was rarely in Mordor. Thou wouldst not know where I was. But then came the war, and where else would I be? Thou knowest I did not die, as I have always known thou still lived; we forged strong bonds in Barad-dûr, did we not? _

As the sun approached noon he sat and considered. He would be heading for places where Elves were thought of as demons, but he could deal with Men; he had dwelt among them, trained their armies, come to know them. Anyway, he had no choice.

  
The thought of Elgalad teased at him again. He hoped – did he? – that Meluion indeed departed Middle-earth, and the iron discipline of thousands of years slammed mental walls against reaching out to him.

_ Everything they will take from me. Everything they did take from me. And now it is too late. I cared enough to send him away. The last marrowless bone of love I could gnaw on is gone. But he loved me. I will remember. _

He needed love as a wine-bibber needs drink, and he could not slake his thirst.

~~~

Dale had been devastated by war. Fire had swept its streets, and the dead had been hastily buried to avoid disease. Many of the people had taken refuge in the Dwarven stronghold of Erebor and were now returning to the town, engaged in the slow task of clearing and rebuilding.

Sifting talk and rumor Vanimórë heard that some of the women had been taken by orcs, some by men from the East, and there was little hope in their having survived. Those taken by Men would be spoils of war, and would likely live; those taken by the orcs were another matter.

His eyes turned north-east toward the Grey Mountains, and narrowed. He paused to purchase dried fruit and meat and wine.

''Sir?'' a voice said behind him, and without turning, one hand moving to his dagger hilt, he replied, ''Yes?''

''Are you a hunter of orcs?''

He glanced back, seeing a young man in leather and mail armor, tall, as many of the Northmen were, eyes scarred by war and grief.

''I am hunting orcs, yes. Why?''

''I am Aelfridd of Dale. My betrothed was taken. She was out gathering herbs with her maid, and the attack was swift. I...have...no-one has found her body. We have searched, but the mountains are evil, and few can be spared. I want to come with you.''  
Vanimórë surveyed the man until blood burned under the tanned skin, and the pale eyes dropped.

''Thou couldst not keep up. And thou shouldst know, Man, that thy woman is more than likely dead.''

''I know,'' the words were a whisper. ''But at least I can bury her with love, with her people.''

''I will not take thee,'' Vanimórë told him. ''I move too fast, but I promise thee I will find the orcs. No-one living knows more about them. But do not hope.''  
He turned strode past the people, out of the fire-scarred streets where the aroma of death drifted from the grave pits, and set his face toward the grim barrier of the Ered Mithrim.

He had never needed any excuse to kill orcs. Had Melkor made them beautiful he would still have loathed them, but to be raped by such bestial ugliness could drive one into screaming horror; it was like being violated by an animal, which he also knew too well.

The mountains hunched themselves before him, grey with shale. Dank mists curled down through chasms where the roar of lonely black water sounded, and Vanimórë, a killing-rage slowly rising, walked through memories of thousands of years.~

~~~

 


	64. The Wrath Of An Elf Lord

  
~ Maglor did not enter the forest which spread its green cloak league upon league to the west. There had been another forest once, a place of legend, where the fairest Child of Ilúvatar had danced under the stars before the sun and moon rose.

He had seen dim glades, the boles of mighty trees like the pillars of a hall in Tirion, clear streams rippling crystal, all of them smudged red by blood.  
No-one would have assaulted Lúthien while she lived, but when the word when abroad that a Silmaril of Fëanor burned again in Doriath the Oath bared its fangs once more.

At first there was grief, a loathing to once again spill the blood of their kin until the battle fury spread its crimson tide over them, and there was no room for thought until after...

_"The children !"_ Down the endless years he heard Maedhros' voice, stark with rage. _"Find the children !"_

Eluréd and Elurín, Dior's young sons, whom Celegorm's servants had taken, and left to die in the winter woods...

Too much blood, and he meant to spill more.

He did not touch his harp once he was sure he was being followed, and his progress was swift until he came to a river which barred his path. Wide and clear and sunlit, the strong current ran deceptively smooth, for he saw the deeper green where eddies swirled and pulled. He would have swum it but for his harp, for he could not be certain of keeping it dry, and it was the only thing he clung to now. It took him some time to find a fordable place, and the tension in his heart increased as if his dark star chafed at the delay, but at last he found a well traveled track and shallows where travelers crossed.

Once beyond the river he saw the remains of camps, dead fires, the droppings of oxen and horses. He became more cautious and moved away from the road, not wishing to be waylaid but conversely, longing for news to tell him what had happened. On the third night across the ford, he caught up with a group of travelers, waited as they lit their fires and settled the beasts, then soundlessly drifted closer to listen to their talk. A wolf-like dog loped out of the night, but made no sound, its alert ears dropping, plumed tail moving into a friendly greeting, and he knelt, running a hand over its head. It closed it's eyes, submitting to his caresses.

The tongue the men spoke had some similarities to the language the Men of the East, and he was able to follow their conversations, learning of Sauron's defeat, of a King in the South after a thousand years. These were merchants, and went wherever there was profit. They seemed unconcerned with the destruction of the Dark Lord, even viewing it as broadening their trade to the kingdoms of the West.

Gradually the men went to their beds, the fires sunk to embers and the summer stars burned more brightly overhead. The hound, lying at Maglor's feet, raised its head as he rose from his crouch, and began to walk again.

_Esgaroth... Dale... Erebor._  
There were towns of Men here, and a mention of Dwarves. He did not know why the one he sought would be here, perhaps there was no reason. It did not matter. Maglor's face, under the star-sheen, was carven stone, emotionless.

_ I have no-one to go to for counsel. I made two Oaths and one could never be fulfilled. This one – I will have no peace until it is. It has been too long delayed, but I was afraid to go to Mordor and never knew where **he** could be, there or in far, hot lands. Now I am close..._

He halted, went very still at a sound which he felt through his feet: Horses hooves were coming at a wild gallop. Maglor turned at a sudden cacophony of noise from the camp, the scream of horses, shouts, death cries. Without thinking he drew his sword and ran. The aftermath of war, the collapse of kingdoms, always brought chaos with it, allowing lawlessness to thrive as lords and chieftains jostled for power.

Horses were pulling at their ropes, armed men trying to herd them, merchants, roused from sleep ran to be cut down in their tracks.  
_ Just as so many Elves were cut down as they fled from us in Doriath, at the Mouths of Sirion, unprepared, defenseless, women, children..._  
The few guards with them fought grimly, but the warriors outnumbered them and were well trained and merciless.

A horse reared up before Maglor. He ducked under the killing hooves, whirling aside from the descending sword and leapt, his blade coming around in a circle, crunching into mail and bone. The rider pitched forward. Something ripped through the shoulder of Maglor's tunic, and cold pain exploded through his body, hot rage through his mind. He half heard a snarl behind him as the dog leaped, hurling another soldier from the saddle, and then time blinked rapidly, from move to move: a strike, a disengage, a jump... There was no weighted net here, to pin him down. he would not be knocked unconscious and bound with chains. This was a fair pitting of his own skill against men who would murder unarmed innocents as they slept.

The stars seemed to freeze overhead as he came to himself. The wounds he had sustained clamored protestingly. Maglor ignored them as he went from body to body, feeling for the pulses of the traders – and finding none.

What had the attackers wanted? The wagons, the horses? Any coin that was carried? Probably. Men killed for greed as much as hate or oath. And kinslaying was not taboo among them.  
He heard a whimper behind him as the great dog limped toward him. Kneeling, he looked over it's wounds. A pale light was growing to the east.

''I will tend thee, my friend,'' he promised. ''But first I must see to the dead.''

There were no tools to dig graves, and no stones on that grassy land to build cairns. In the end, Maglor carried the bodies to one of the wagons and made it a pyre. He left those he had slain as warning to others, or food for the gor-crows.

There were supplies in plenty. He had nothing to give for what he took, but as the wagon burned, he brought out his harp and played a song of sorrow for the passing of life. Mens fate was a mystery after death, but wherever their souls fled, they needed no material goods. Maglor did. He took what he needed, and stood a moment with hand on breast, deciding some-one needed to know about this. He told over the names of the towns he had heard. They lay to the north, and so did the one he followed.

The pack he strapped on was considerably heavier than the one he had carried here. New boots shod his feet. He knelt, checking the hound's wound again; he had found dried meat for it and it had eaten and drunk water. The cut on its flank was clean, and the others were smaller and would heal of their own accord.

''I will call thee Huan, in memory of he who bore that name long ago,'' he said. ''For he was also noble hearted and brave. Wilt thou follow me or go free?''

When he walked away the dog, limping a little, trotted after him.

He knew that to any Elf who might be following, he had left an unmistakable marker: death dealt out by a Elven greatsword.

~~~

Braiding back his hair Maglor drew the cloak's deep-cowled hood over his face, ran his fingers down the hound's spine.

''Stay close to me,'' he murmured as he approached the town on the lake shore.

The tongue here was the same as the one he had heard far west in Bree. That had carried a rolling burr, here the vowel sounds were flatter, crisper. He listened as men and women went about their business, feeling an immense sense of displacement, a terrible loneliness for his own kin, for days long gone.

_ I have no place here. The world has run on and left me._

He reached back in memory to Tirion, to his brothers, his father before the releasing of Morgoth, before the Oath. Bright as jewels, their faces and voices opened to him like a lover's arms, as if he might walk into the the visions and be there, among those he loved.

A handcart rumbled past him, jolting him back to the world, the townspeople, the timber-framed houses, and he could have wept with loneliness.

Two men passed him, entering the open door of a tavern. The scent of roasting meat, the tang of ale and wine wafted into the street. He hesitated a moment, then entered.

It was late afternoon. The place was not busy as yet and the rushes on the floor still smelled green and fresh. A girl swished through a rear door briskly, carrying mugs which she placed on the long counter. The man behind it lifted one then paused as the tall stranger with the wolf-like hound approached. Both bore a sense of coiled danger, but so had others he had seen since the end of the war, and the dog was well trained, staying close to its master's heels. Had the innkeep been paying more attention, he would have seen that the rushes did not rustle under the man's tread.

''Sir?''

''Hast thou wine?'' The voice carried an alien, complex accent the man could not trace. ''I come from the south. To whom do I report an attack? A merchant's train, bound here, I think, about ten leagues down the road from the river.'' One hand gestured. It was white and slender as if it had never done a days work, lifted anything heavier than a wine-cup, yet a sword rode at the man's hip, Baed noted, and an unconscious move of the other hand had swept the cloak aside to allow an instant reach for the hilt.

''An attack, sir, you saw this?'' Baed brought out a bottle and poured into a copper cup. ''Wulfstan, Edric. You heard that?''

"We heard. Down the trade road?'' The men were young, with fair northern faces browned by the sun. ''Who attacked them?''

''Mounted soldiers. They were well armed, not wolfsheads. I left the bodies. Some took the horses and drove them off.''

''Men out of the east,'' Grunted Baed. ''Aye, we have heard rumors those lands are in uproar since the end of the War.'' There was a pregnant silence. "Did you kill them?" The hooded head briefly bent. ''Some. I killed some. As I say, others drove off the horses. I left all as it was. The merchants were unarmed, surprised, it was night. I sent them to the Halls of Waiting, in a pyre.''

''I will take this news to the Master,'' Edric said. ''He will want to send people there. Can you lead us?''

''I will direct thee, but I cannot go back. I am looking for...some-one.''  
Edric opened his mouth to protest but found himself silent; after all, what was there to say? Would a man come to them with such a report if he had been part of the attack? He nodded and slapped his companion on the shoulder.  
''Come!''

The men left with backward looks and the tall stranger picked up the wine. Baed saw a glimpse of white skin within the cowl as he drank.

''You are an orc hunter, too?'' he asked, glancing at the sword and knife, the dog, who sat alertly on its haunches. ''You remind me of the other one who stays at whiles.''  
Baed was not a man given to nerves, but he found himself talking to fill the silence.  
''Since the war many come through here to cleanse the land of the vermin. There may be a new King in the south, but that is far away, we look to our own here.''

The stranger sipped the wine again, as if waiting.

''Some women were taken from Dale by orcs heading up to the Grey Mountains. Few will go there. This one did though, and came back with some he rescued.'' A grimace showed. ''They were hurt, but alive, and they said he killed the orcs, and those he did not, fled. He has a room above.'' Baed tipped his head toward the ceiling. "Stays a night or two, and then leaves again. Tall like you, all in black. Elf, but not one of the folk of the Wood. Hair longer than a woman's, arms marked with tattoos. Uncanny. But if he's hunting orcs and pays, I'll say naught against him."

Like a hound after a long hunt, catching the sudden close rich scent of its quarry, Maglor's head slowly rose. He felt his heart pulse in his ears, memories burned across his eyes, blinding him for a moment to the room, the man. The hunter was, in many ways, loath to finally confront the one he sought.

''Violet eyes?'' he heard himself say. ''Bearing twin swords?''

''You know him, sir? Aye, that is the one. A strange one, says little.'' The Innkeeper poured himself a mug of ale and drank.

''I know him,'' Maglor said distantly. ''I thought to catch up with him.''

''He mostly hunts the Grey Mountains and the waste beyond, sir. So you are a hunter too?"

''He returns here?''

Baed nodded. ''At times. We never know when, but we keep his room.'' He became quiet as the pert serving girl entered with more clean mugs. She cast a curious glance at the stranger then, with a distinct, provocative flip of her long skirts turned and walked back to the kitchens.

''Aelfritha's been trying to interest him in more than wine and food,' the innkeep said wryly. ''She wastes her time. All ice he is.''

_ Oh no... no, thou art so wrong,_ Maglor pushed his empty goblet forward in a wordless request. _ Not ice. Ice could not have saved me, kept me alive and hating..._  
He heard himself say: ''I will take a room. goodman. I will seek for him, but I too, need a place to bathe and rest.'' He reached into his cloak for coin.

''I can give you one next to his,'' Baed picked up the silver and nodded toward the stairs. ~

~~~


	65. A Cry In The Night

  
~ Elgalad felt as if he walked in a Lay out of the past and that his Lord was somehow a part of it, one who had always dwelt in darkness, scarce known; a shadow-figure who to him shone brighter than any star. And now he had but one aim, to find his lord before Maglor did.

_ Sauron is gone! Thou art free ! I can be with thee..._

On the heels of these joyous thought would come the remembrance. _ No, I am not thy beloved. But still I must find thee._

He said, his voice casual as he buckled his pack, ''I g-go to hunt and g-gather herbs.'' and he was aware of the eyes turning to him, intent and brilliant. When the scattered trees, the rolls of the land took him out of their vision, he loosed a breath and ran to the eaves of the forest.

Long ago he had fled through Mirkwood northward. Then he had been impelled by horror and grief, now he was driven by love. He had been scarce an adult then, now he had long been a warrior, and the Silvan Elves habitually used the trees to travel swiftly. The great trees felt them, aided them in their passage so that a Mortal, or even another Elf would not hear one passing from tree to tree.

It was not that the others could not pursue him but the forest and that mode of travel was not their natural element.

The springy wood propelled him. His race was silent and swift, a weaving and leaping among what looked like tangles of branches and leaves which would allow nothing through, or perhaps nothing but an Elf.

A half moon rose and he paused, listening. The night breeze caressed him and the oak murmured its slow, ancient language. He heard nothing else but a white owl far off, and the slink of a fox somewhere below. Unstopping his water-skin he drank, ate a handful of dried meat and fruit then, judging that he had put a fair distance between himself and the others, he allowed himself a brief rest before the rose-gold dawn.

_ My Lord, if only I could reach thee! I know thou hast closed thy mind to me and believe me gone, but I have to find thee! _

The first low sun filtered through the leaves, turning them a soft gilt-green as he straightened his harness and took a deep breath. With a long leap, he was gone.

***

Although the reign of King Elessar of Gondor and Arnor would be remembered as a time of rebirth, peace would not come easily. Anduril would see service in war again. There were Men in the wide east and south who had ever worshiped the dark, and now their Overlord was destroyed, bloody power struggles would ensue. Although the armies of Harad and Khand had been broken at the battle of the Pelennor, there were always more warriors born. But these people, although called Men of the Darkness, lived under their own laws harsh and incomprehensible though they might seem to the Men of the West. Far worse than they were the kind that had always existed, who lived by no laws, beyond the boundaries of any King's writ, wolfsheads who preyed on the weak and were cruel as orcs.

As so much changed with the ending of the war, some of these men, driven from the lands which would now come under the rule of Elessar, turned their faces to the wilder places, the fringes, the margins. Some were Men wanted for execution, others were outcasts from their families, a few were victims fleeing from injustice. There was no room in their lives for mercy or pity; they lived to eat and drink and whore when they could. They obtained these things by robbery and often by murder. Men with a conscience soon lost it in such companies.

Long ago, when Elgalad had come this way, he had seen timber long-houses surrounded by high stockades and thought them protection for the people and their livestock from wolves. This was partly true, but men knew that the greatest threat to them came from other men. There were dark things in Southern Mirkwood, but few orcs in this region. Wolfsheads were more dangerous than wargs to the northern men who lived in their scattered homesteads.

A scent of smoke had teased Elgalad as he traveled northward, borne on the constant hot wind that blew across Rhovannion. There were no villages or towns there as far as he knew, only the trade road from Dorwinion to Esgaroth and Dale. He came out of the forest close to place he had emerged long ago. Here the river Celduin hugged the forest, and beyond it was a further scattering of woodland before the treeless roll of Rhovannion undulated into the East.

This time he did not linger, though memories caught at his throat, caused him to close his eyes for a moment. It was time he left the forest anyway, for he would soon approach areas patrolled by the Elves, who would know him, perhaps wish him to go to the king, and he could not be delayed.

The smoke still lingered; dead ash and the sweet-sick stink of charred meat.

Coming to the edge of the last stand of trees he looked out over leagues of grassland, then turned away only to swing back as something caught the edge of his vision.  
A horse was approaching, riderless, galloping hard and lathered. Elgalad heard its heaving breaths as it neared the trees and swung toward the south, propping to a snorting halt.

''Gently, gently.'' Elgalad came out of the trees, reaching out a hand, and the horse paused, blowing.  
''There is n-nothing t-to fear.'' With a last toss of its head, the animal lowered its soft muzzle to Elgalad's outstretched palm. A snapped tether trailed from the halter.  
''Something frightened th-thee? The f-fire?'' He ran his hand down the damp neck and lead it to the river where it dipped its head and drank as he wove grasses into a wisp and smoothed the dark coat.

The evening thickened as he waited, allowing the horse to rest. He gazed north, his face troubled.

_ My Lord would investigate. Any-one would. _

He was ashamed of the length of time it took him to reach the decision. He was desperate to go on, but out there people might be lying hurt and helpless, dying. Dropping his head in his hands, he groaned, telling himself that his mentor was a warrior, he had seen him fight...

And he broke into a run, the gentle thud of hooves behind telling him that the horse was following.

The night showered stars from one horizon to the other, and he lifted up his eyes to watch the last stars fade. The long, slanting beams of the sun were directly in his eyes as he topped a small rise and came upon a camp.

Startled, he halted, seeing tethered horses. One threw up its head, nickered a greeting, which sound brought men up from where they had been lying around the dead embers of a fire.

They were unshorn, unwashed, the smell of dried sweat thick and acrid in the fresh morning. All bore arms, from bows to long knives and swords. Blinking the sleep from their eyes they saw a tall pale haired figure standing close to a bay horse. He was still for a heartbeat, and then before they could blink the sun glittered from the point of the nocked arrow.

A bearish man raised a hand, showing broken teeth a smile.  
''Hey now, wait stranger. I see ye found our runaway.'' He nodded toward the horse.

''H-he belongs t-to thee?'' The words were soft, but the arrow unwavering.

''Aye, he is and you have saved us a long chase boy. My thanks.''

''What _is_ that?''  
The question came from a lean man in cured sheepskins; fetishes and braids were woven into his unkempt hair, his eyes were night-black and glittering.

''I know what it is.'' The answer came from a taller fellow, pale of hair and eye who regarded Elgalad with a mixture of fear and fascination.  
''They spoke of them in my land, tales of sorcery...the Fey Folk, like the Witch-woman of Dwimmordene.'' His hand clenched on the hilt of an old but very serviceable blade. ''It will bespell us all with its eyes and voice. Kill it !''

The leader passed his tongue over his lips thoughtfully. His sight was not so good as it once had been and he stepped closer, seeing the long fall of hair, milk-white skin drawn taut over high bones, luminous eyes. So long was the hair that Hargad might have thought the stranger a woman, but although the face was beautiful, there was nothing feminine about the wide shoulders or the swell of muscle under the tunic, and the bow must carry a draw weight heavier than anything he had ever seen or held himself.

''You be an Elf? Truly?'' he demanded, running a hand over his jaw. He had heard of them, of course, but they were legends among the fisher-folk of the Lebennin whence he had fled long ago. The youth who had spurned his friendship and died for it had been fair, but Gods, not as fair as this !

He jerked his head to his men in an unspoken signal.

''We mean no harm, pay no heed to Aldor. He is of Rohan and they have many tales of your folk. There will be no killing, come, eat with us, we owe ye for bringing back the horse.''

''I smelled s-smoke, out here, b-burning, I thought there was a b-battle.'' The Elf's voice, thought Hargad, might indeed weave a spell, it was sweet and clear, but the faint stammer to it made the creature seem less inhuman. ''And I w-work no s-spells !''

Hargad grunted a laugh and spat sideways.  
''Seen a fire a ways back,'' he said. ''Burned wagon, but nothing else, lots of folk humming hither and yon like a smashed hive since the War. We're heading north, may be some work up there, it is said."

''To Esgaroth?'' Elgalad eased the tension of his bowstring, but only a very little. He could not bring himself to sit down with these Men who looked as dangerous as starved wolves.

"Come," the leader invited again as he turned and moved sideways. His step revealed one of his men who also carried a bow – and this one loosed the shaft, which passed a hairsbreadth from Elgalad. Who loosed his own. His arrow found it's target. Another was on string and flying, punching through the breast of a second man, and one more was nocked even as a whine like an angry bee sounded and the slingshot caught him on the temple. He staggered and fell.

''By Bema, I_ WILL_ kill it!'' shouted Aldor, lunging forward to come up against Hargad's massive chest.

''Who leads here?'' hissed the man. ''Put up, now! All of ye! _NOW!_ Or face me! Olath was a fool! I did not mean killing!''

Angry, muttering, the others stepped back glaring at the fallen Elf. He seemed to gleam silver in the sun.

"I have looked after all of ye, got ye all through bad times. Got you wine, women, boys, when we could. This one – he is mine." Hargad grinned as he surveyed the fallen creature and stooped, fingering the soft hair. "Yes, I think it time the Gods smiled on me. Bind him, not too tight, but tight enough. I want him to walk."

''You think rope will hold an _Ælf?_'' demanded Aldor.

''What d'ye think he is going to do, vanish like smoke? Look, ye great fool.'' He lifted the hair to show a raw bruise weeping beads of blood on the temple. ''He bleeds red blood like you and I. Whatever he can do, he is not going to be disappear.'' The eyes held a dark, lascivious anticipation as they feasted on the unconscious face. ''Tie his wrists, then tie rope them to his waist. When he wakes, we move on, get far from the road and then... we'll see if Elf's arse feels the same as a boy's.''

***

Vanimórë swept into the room which was slowly filling with the usual influx of evening patrons. Cloaked, hooded, booted as always, yet a familiar enough figure in the Clearwater Tavern, though he stayed briefly and only to bathe, replenish supplies and drink the best wine the town could offer.

The Dwarves of Erebor were happy to pay those who hunted orcs, and Vanimórë's money found its way into the hands of the innkeeper, whom had learned to keep a bottle of Dorwinion Red Harvest ready. Now Baed retrieved it, broke the seal and took the wine to the corner table even as the man sat down. He invariably chose a chair with its back to the wall, and somehow no-one ever approached him, no matter how drunk. He emanated an subtle danger that seemed to keep the space about him clear.

Baed poured the ruby wine, and whispered confidentially, ''One of your folk been here looking for you, sir.''

The copper cup was lowered and the purple eyes narrowed.

''One of _my_ folk?''

''He was cloaked and hooded, like you. Black hair, tall. White skin. He said he knew you and took a room – I gave him the one next to yours – hoping to meet you when you returned. He told us of an attack on traders wagons coming up from the south.'' Baed cleared his throat. ''Some of the towns guard went down the trade road and it looks like he killed the attackers – raiders out of Rhun, deserting soldiers, most likely.''

A long-fingered hand drummed soundlessly on the wooden surface. Vanimórë's eyes lifted toward the upper floor.

''Yes, I am sure I know him,'' he said. "A..._very _ old acquaintance." He drank off the wine and flicked a Dwarf-minted coin at Baed, then rose and turned to the stairs.

He crossed the room, set one foot on the first step and looked up with a strange smile.

_My Lord ! _ The cry pierced the armor about his mind like a hurled lance. He stopped short. The babble of the common-room receded into silence.

At the top of the stairs a shadow moved. Lantern light welled across a white face half hidden under a cowl, catching a brilliant flash of silver eyes.

_ My Lord !_

_ Elgalad was bound, there was a rope around his neck and his arms were dragged behind him, the wrists secured and lashed against his back. He jerked away from a meaty hand which held his face, and it dealt him a brutal backhanded slap. The man, pale haired, with skittish eyes spat upon him, and Elgalad lashed out with one foot, catching him in the groin. Other men ran forward and fists and kicks overwhelmed the Elf until a huge man pulled them away, shouting orders. Elgalad lifted his face. It was bruised, and blood ran from a split lip, but his jaw was clenched hard. The big man ran his hands familiarly over the Elf's body, and the huge grey eyes flinched, hating the touch..._

''_Thou._'' Came the well-remembered golden voice from the head of the stairs.

Vanimórë whirled and ran for the door, slammed it open and vanished into the night. Staring, the innkeeper saw the other Elf leap down the stairs and follow him like a sweep of wind.

''A merry meeting, that,'' he muttered as he filled a mug with ale. ''Must have some important business to attend to.''

Vanimórë's booted feet made no sound as he crossed the bridge to the shore.

_Meluion ! Where art thou? And what in the Hells name art thou doing here?_

He felt the fear, the hate and confusion suddenly explode with what he devoutly hoped was not a misplaced belief in his abilities.

_ My Lord! South, south of Esgaroth, south and east! I am bound, I cannot free myself! _

_ South and east of the town, I thank thee, Meluion, that is no small area to search. _ Vanimórë thought savagely as he raced south around the lake shore, but he kept his mind-voice calm as he ran, his strides seemed to spurn touching the earth.  
_ I am coming. _

And then he slowed for a moment. He could not hear his pursuer, but he knew Maglor followed him.

"Shit!" He enunciated the Westron gutter-word flatly. _I do not have time for this Maglor, I truly do not. _

_ They set up camp soon, my Lord and I cannot fight ! they will..._ A jumble of horrified images broke into Vanimórë's mind.

_ Meluion, I am disappointed thou canst not escape a few Men, I must say. _ His tone was dry, but he knew that any-one could be disarmed and rendered helpless; it had happened to him often enough. His stride lengthened again. He devoured the grass under his feet as the stars opened.

_ He will die if they violate him. They might kill him anyway. Lawless men...they will stay clear of the trade road...By the Void, Maglor, so thou didst search for me indeed. Why now? _ He was almost amused. _ I would enjoy meeting with thee again, just not precisely at this moment. However, thou may come in useful..._

There had always been a link between Vanimórë and Elgalad. If the Elf were anywhere in Middle-earth Vanimórë could sense him, but it was not as if he were handed a map; it was more subtle than that.  
The men who had captured Elgalad would not go to Esgaroth or Dale. Vanimórë knew how such bands operated; they thieved, killed, hunted if they had to, but rarely entered any ordered settlement unless they had coin.

_ Oh, damn thee Meluion, and damn thee Maglor! I need time!_

The night had been still, windless until now. A sigh ran across the long, bleached grasses, burned dry as hay by the hot summer. A south wind, bearing thunder. The air mass pushed the scent of hot days and corn stooks into his face, and he breathed deeply.

_Yes..._ His inner smile was satisfied. _Fire..._  
Easy to start, but still he needed time and Maglor was on his heels like a wolf.

He could feel Elgalad's dread, and it spurred him. If the men got comfortable with stolen ale or mead and began their games he could do nothing, there was no telling how far away they were. He needed to keep them moving, panic them. Fire would do that.

With precise, preternatural control he stopped. His hair slapped against his back in the sudden cessation of movement. A tall standing shape in the darkness he was, waiting, waiting for the moment – And then his swords hissed out and he spun, catching the savage down-stroke of the Fëanorion's blade.

Locked together, their muscles braced with the effort of striving. In the fleeting moments before either chose to disengage, Vanimórë leaned forward and kissed Maglor on the mouth, passionately.

It had the effect he expected. Maglor leaped backward like a cat scalded by a pan of boiling water, and even as he moved Vanimórë swept the flat of one scimitar behind one long leg and brought it up, sending the Fëanorion to his back. The point of the blade rested at the hollow of his throat.

''Thou canst kill me later, Maglor,'' he said calmly. ''I am searching for an Elf, taken prisoner by a band of wolfsheads. Once he was my ward, and not thou nor Eru Himself is going to stop me from finding him. I need time, and if I have to make that time by hurting thee a little, I will. The choice, my friend, is thine.'' His teeth gleamed in the starlit dark.

***

The first time Elgalad had tried to break away the jerk on his throat had stolen his air, almost sending him to the ground. The Men had also learned to keep clear of the long legs which could kick like a draft horse, but they did not tie them. They needed him to be able to walk.

This time of the year, even these lonely lands held traders coming north before the season changed, soldiers out of Esgaroth and Dale and mercenaries, who, though they hunted for pay – or perhaps because of it – were more trustworthy than the rogues who moved outside any law. They were not in a safe place, nor would they be until they reached the grim skirts of the Grey Mountains. They could not tarry.

Elgalad was sick with dread. In his mind, there was no difference between these men and orcs. The same senseless violence and evil clung to to them and this was compounded by the fear with which the Dunlander and the Man of Rohan seemed to feel for him. They would have killed him if they were permitted. Aldor spoke of legends of men drawn in to Dwimmordene and never returning, bespelled by the _Ælf_ witch whom dwelt there.

"The L-Lady who dwells in Lothlórien is wise..." he had protested.

The blow had cracked across his face and Aldor hissed: ''You are spell weavers who lure Men and possess their souls! You have none of your own!''

Hargad did not call a halt to such things unless they became too rough. He did not want this creature spoiled, but the dark hunger within him enjoyed seeing the beauty misused. He did not believe the foolishness Aldor spouted. The Elf bruised and bled as Men did, and could feel hurt, but he was strong and fast even when tied. After a struggle that had left some of them collapsed over their privates, a rope had been secured about the white neck where it scored the skin raw, and they did not untie him even to eat. Hargad had tried to force food and water between his mouth, and he had locked it tight with jaws that even his big hands could not open. Swearing, he had gripped the fair face and snarled into it,  
''Ye do need food, yes? And water? Not that different to us, are ye? You'll eat what I offer ye, boy, or we will hold you down and empty out bowels and bladders on your face and milk ourselves dry over ye, and that will be the only meat and drink ye'll get, d'ye understand me?''

There had been a roar of laughter at this and the threat had worked, for the Elf thereafter took dried meat and sips of water. The men thought no-one could long retain their strength with such frugal fare, but it did not seem to affect the thing's strength; he walked with the same light, graceful stride.

He said nothing, save when an answer was demanded of him, but was the object of their stares, speculations and innuendo's. They knew the hungers of the one who lead them and did not care, for the Elf, although obviously male, was more beautiful than any woman they had seen, his loose silver hair sheeting down to mid thigh. Even in those who feared his race, his beauty stirred their lusts.

Elgalad had swum from unconsciousness, his head pounding to see the men around him, smell their rankness and had come to understand what was to be his fate. When Hargad touched Elgalad and the Elf heard the quickening of his breath, saw the beast-like eyes, he cried out to his Lord in overwhelming horror, not believing he would be heard. It was instinctive as a babe's cry to it's mother. Then, when the answer touched his mind, he felt such a sense of reassurance, of relief, that it calmed him as if a hand was laid upon his shoulder.

As night fell a fire was built, the men shared a skin of sour mead and spitted a grouse. They were at home with the wild and moved as people long accustomed to one another. The wind had shifted a little, now blowing from the south-west, carrying the hint of a storm.  
Elgalad, breathing in the scent of it desperately, felt a tug on his neck rope and turned quickly before it could sear flesh already rubbed raw. Hargad lead him a little away from the main camp, to a smaller fire.

''You do not need to fight me,'' he whispered, and Elgalad saw the tremble of his hands as they held the rope tightly. Not far away Aldor stood, his short bow nocked. Elgalad's tall form was outlined by the fire, an unmissable target.  
''I can stop all this rough play and keep the men off ye if ye stop fighting, lad.''  
The lovely face shivered, blurred into another, dark haired, that one, and dark eyed, but with the same innocence. Hargad had smashed it to red pulp after the boys horrified refusal of his "friendship."

''Thou h-hast bound m-me as a b-beast and would despoil m-me,'' the Elf said coldly.

''No, no lad, it need not be that way. We have seen how you fight, we have to keep you bound, or you would kill us.'' A thick tongue flicked over broken teeth. ''But my men know I look after them, keep them alive, look after them as a father.'' He grinned. ''And I will look after ye boy, if ye cease all this and be sensible.''

The silver head jerked up as Hargad took a step closer, then, with a wary eye to those shapely legs, he reconsidered and kept his distance, lust worrying at him like a rat at his innards.

''I'll look after you and show you how it is to be favoured by Hargad, and no-one else will touch ye. No-one but me.''

Elgalad heard the sickly lust like slime in the words, and his blood shocked through him. He said, his voice honed by hate and disgust:  
''Thou art no b-better than an orc! I will _n-never_ be thy p-plaything! Thou wilt h-have to k-kill me first!''

Fury twisted the Man's features and he jerked on the rope, savagely cracking Elgalad's head back.  
''I will do that, ye arrogant shit, and I will enjoy it! But I can promise ye that ye'll not!'' Spittle flew from his lips. ''Hold him down!" he roared to his men.

Revulsion exploded through Elgalad as he was borne by main force to the grass. ~

~~~


	66. The Enemy Of My Enemy, Is My Friend

 

~ Maglor lay on the grass with the kiss of steel at his throat like ice and the imprint of the warm mouth burning on his lips. He was blinded by sheer rage, by the closeness of this one he so hated, by the kiss...  
His breath came hard, fast, the point of the blade all but piercing his flesh, and he knew a desire to throw himself fully onto it, to choke on his own blood and end the unbearable pain of life.

_But I have a son..._

''I know.''

Maglor's eyes widened.

''I saw him, at the Last Alliance. But much as I would _love_ to stand here and speak of you of times past, I am attempting to save an Elf from rape and torment.''

Through a white haze of fury, Maglor remembered. ''Elgalad..?'' he whispered.

The violet eyes above him became intent.  
''Thou knowest him?'' Then there was laughter.  
''This becomes ever more interesting. My deepest apologies, Maglor, but I have no time. I think I shall simply have to knock thee out.'' His grip on the scimitar shifted to bring the hilt down on his head.

Maglor said: ''_No._''

The other paused in his movement.  
''Listen to me very carefully. How long does it take to rape some-one? Elgalad will die if I do not reach him in time. Then those who touched him will wish for a long time that they had never been born, but that will not bring Elgalad back. If I leave thee free, and thou doth attempt to stop me again, I _ will _ leave thee unconscious and bound. Thou hast sworn an Oath? Another one? So be it. Save it for a better time.''

Maglor swallowed curses like bitter water. His whole being ached to kill. To see this _no-one_ in the flesh again..! He needed no reminders of Mordor, but the dark energy which burned off the other, and _that kiss_ brought the memories violently to life; not his torment but after, in the room where he had been brought back to life...

He thought of Elgalad, with his endearing stammer, the sweet face belying his strength, so passionately determined to let no harm come to the 'Lord' whom he loved.

_ He was the one I sensed following me? I lead him here and now he is in danger? _ He groaned, thinking of the vulnerability in the rain-grey eyes. It had touched his heart as nothing had in a very long time. He looked away.

''I will not hinder thee. He was following me. I met him. He was going to lead me to Imladris where my son dwells.'' His voice was flat, emotionless. ''He wanted to prevent me from killing thee. Let me up – and I will bide my time.''

''Do I have thine oath?'' Vanimórë asked. The question was brisk and mocking, and Maglor blazed into fresh rage.

''Forget I spoke.'' The scimitar's point was removed. Maglor came to his feet, watching as Vanimórë removed flint and tinder from his pack, and a soft wad of something.

''My name is Vanimórë,'' he said, not looking around. "It is just a mockery.''

Maglor watched the small blaze start in the sheep's-wool. The growing flame washed Vanimórë's face red gold as he rose, gathering handfuls of grasses which burned hungrily. Far away, on the very edge of sight, storm clouds were building, climbing the star-field.

_ Why is he starting a fire? This ground is tinder dry! Who in the Hells is he? _

''The fire is a diversion,'' Vanimórë responded. ''No traveller wishes to be caught in a fire. I do not want them having the opportunity to play with Elgalad. I judge,'' he raised an arm. ''that they are somewhere east of here.'' A glitter of eyes swept him. ''Before thou doth kill me, I will tell thee who I am.''

Again and again they knelt, starting fires in the grasses which caught and spread on the wind, until smoke soured the air and sparks leaped up. The fire sped east voraciously, and Maglor saw Vanimórë's head lift, the rippling plume of hair tossing. Then he turned and began to to race north east around the margin of the fires.

_ I know how Oaths can wait, curl to sleep, until the time, I will fulfill this one. But Elgalad...he does not deserve such a fate. And this Vanimórë – Beautiful Darkness? – is not leaving my sight! _   
_ I will aid thee, for his sake! Oh, father, what wouldst thou do? And what if I have to kill Elgalad too, at the last? _

***

''Hargad !'' One of the men snapped. ''I smell smoke. Grass fire.''

Their leader cursed as he looked up and heaved himself to his feet jerking the laces of his breeches together over his swollen shaft.

''South-west, I think. The wind is driving it this way.''

''Get up !'' A huge hand pulled Elgalad to his feet. ''Douse the fires, get your gear! We move !'' A knife prodded the doeskin tunic. ''Move !''

Bruised, shaking with relief, Elgalad did not reply. His spirit had curled inward to hide behind internal barriers as the man bore him down and then he heard, even as rough hands reached for his leggings, that cool, rich voice in his mind.  
It came again, reassuring in it's calmness.  
_My dear, canst thou smell or see fire? _

Elgalad looked into the night. The scent of burning grass swept into his face.

_ Yes, my Lord. I see it – south-west of us, about five leagues. They are moving. North._

_ Good. _ There was a pause. _ They have not touched thee yet. This is almost over, Meluion. Let me give them a little something to goad them on. _

The men strapping their packs and saddling horses made uneasy by the smoke suddenly stiffened as from a distance, unmistakably clear, came a deep, savage howl.

''Warg!'' Hissed the Dunlander as he threw himself into his saddle. Another howl joined the fading echo's of the first.

Vanimórë, imitating the sounds, smiled to himself. It _was _ very realistic.

''Move out !'' Elgalad was prodded, half lifted to the horse, whose reins were tied to the beast Hargad rode.

Riding fast at night could be dangerous: a rabbit hole, an unseen stone, could stumble and lame a horse, but these were already snorting, sweating, their skin flicking as if flies landed there. They needed no encouragement to flee from the fire and the howls.

_ My Lord... _ Elgalad closed his eyes, still shivering with the realization of how close the men had come to raping him. The bruises from feet and fists were blossoming into deep aches but he ignored them, reaching out with his mind.

The eastern horizon now glowed red as a carpet of flame ate across the hay-dry grasses, whirling motes of fiery cinders flicked past them. Elgalad closed his eyes for a moment, imagining his lord running like the wind, silent and lethal, an arrow which when it struck would dispense death.

_ What help can I be? _  
His hands strained against the ropes, his shoulder muscles cording.  
_ I saw him break from steel manacles long ago – but I am not he. _  
There was no leverage with his arms pinned at this angle. The men had known how to tie him securely. His teeth clenched as the rope cut into his skin and a hiss escaped his lips, lost in the pound of running hooves.  
Panic snapped through him as from ahead of them came a shockingly loud warg howl which set men cursing, horses shrieking and swerving. One went down in a roll which tore a scream from the rider as his leg was crushed. Regaining it's feet, the animal bolted into the night.

_ They will be on us before my Lord comes... _

Armed and free he would have faced wargs without flinching, but bound as he was he would only be able to watch, and feel as they devoured him – a bad death, not a warriors death, but swifter than fading from the rape...

_ Do strive for a little imagination, sweeting, there are no wargs this far south in Rhovannion._

Even as the voice came into his mind, something hit him. He was hurled from the horse, tucked against a hard body as he fell, and they rolled, coming up. Elgalad felt the cold of steel as a knife was inserted between his wrists, and the ropes parted under the edge. The weapon rose, cutting the noose around his neck and hands pulled the ropes from his throat and wrists. He turned.

The man that had released him was not his lord. He saw the hard profile, the mane of dark hair, a flash of silver eyes.

Maglor Fëanorion...?

''Here.'' The hilt of a long knife was slapped into his palm. ''Use it well.''  
Bewildered, Elgalad tried to shake strength back into his arms, hearing Hargad roar as he attempted to wheel his panicked mount. The other Men milled, cursing.  
The Dunlander, swearing in some hill dialect, shot an arrow. It flashed out of the dark and there was a ring as it struck Maglor's swiftly raised sword. The Fëanorion reached for his boot and sent a knife end over end to bury itself in the man's throat.  
Hargad bellowed like a wounded ox, and threw himself from his horse.

''Kill that one ! The other, I want!''

Some of the men were searching the darkness for the slink of the wargs. Aldor, with a Rohirric war cry leaped toward Maglor.

Elgalad flicked his hands again, and willed his fingers to tighten as Hargad rushed at him like a bull. Whirling aside, he followed up the movement to land a kick upon the mans broad back which propelled him forward. From the other direction came the clash of swords in savage blows, short and brutal, as Maglor dispatched Aldor with a brutal blow which sheared through one shoulder and took off the arm.

Hargad's rush came to an abrupt halt as he hit something which felt like a wall. He staggered back.

''Elgalad, this one is mine,'' Vanimórë said softly, his noiseless steps bringing him up against a startled Hargad, who found himself giving back, again and again as if he were retreating from a stalking wolf. But there was something more dangerous than a wolf in the tall figure whose eyes were burning an impossible color in the night.  
Hargad did not even see him move. He felt only a rush of air and then blackness dropped upon him, as the hilt of one of Vanimórë's scimitars struck under the jaw.

''My Lord !''

''Behind thee,'' Vanimórë said calmly, not moving. Elgalad spun, ducked the down-sweep of a blade, then fell to one knee, and in the same movement plunged his dirk up into the man's groin. Two of the men decided this fight was not for them, giving their frightened beasts their heads, they galloped away.

From standing, Vanimórë exploded into a run and jumped, catching each man by their jerkins and pulling them from their saddles. As they crashed to the ground the twin blades whirled and came down with brutal finality. He strolled back, flicking blood from the steel, then drew a cloth from his belt and wiped the blades before returning them to their housings.

''_My Lord ! _'' Elgalad cast himself against Vanimórë.

''Did I not tell thee to leave? I distinctly remember it.'' Vanimórë , smoothed the gleaming hair.

''I c-could not leave. I knew thou wouldst n-not come to Mithlond,'' Elgalad gasped into the hard shoulder. Then he looked up, huge eyed. ''He...swore t-to kill thee ! Lord M-Maglor !''

Vanimórë cast an ironic glance at the stone-faced Fëanorion who was watching them with a frown in his eyes.  
''I told him he would have to wait. And now...there may be no wargs, but there is still a fire, I suggest we leave.''

He disengaged himself gently and walked to the unconscious Hargad, heaving him over one shoulder as if he were a sack of grain.  
''Oh, I am not saving him, my dear,'' he walked past them. ''Get thy weapons and follow me.''

They outran the fire which was quenched at last by the storm which broke across Rhovannion. Still they ran, until ahead of them gleamed the southern waters of the Long Lake.

Hargad who had awoken groggily, was sent back to sleep by a judicious tap on the head, and upon reaching the lake shore, Vanimórë deposited him on the grass. A lightning flash showed his face as hard as an executioners as he drew lengths of leather twine from his pack and bound the man; the rain would tighten the cords as it dried.

Elgalad broke the silence.  
''My l-lord? W-what wilt thou d-do with h-him?''

''What was he going to do to thee?''

Elgalad looked away.  
''H-he wanted t-to...use me.'' The rain sleeked over his face as he glanced back at Vanimórë.

''I would as lief bed a boar in a wallow than that thing. But his punishment will be...suitable.'' The smile was chilling.

_And then I will kill thee,_ thought Maglor, earning a whimsical look from the violet eyes and, which shocked him to his core and outraged him, a wink.

Grey light was growing. The storm passed and as the sun rose the clouds broke, scattering away into the unknown east. The air smelled cleansed and fresh. Birds broke into song, the lake flashed and sparkled and droplets scattered from the birches in a rainbow shower of crystals.

_ Take him away from here. Take him to the tavern._

Maglor's brows drew together as the calm voice sounded in his mind.

_Thou wilt not so easily escape me._

_Oh, I will not try to, Fëanorion. We have many reminiscences to share, do we not? _ The soft laugh burned colour into Maglor's cheeks, and his fingers tightened on his sword hilt. _ I do not wish Elgalad to see what I will do to this piece of filth. _

Elgalad said: ''I was t-travelling with thy s-son, lord Maglor.''

It brought Maglor's head whipping around in a flurry of wet hair. ''What?''

''I went t-to Imladris, as I t-told thee. H-he and Lord Glorfindel came with m-me to f-find thee. I...left them, but they w-will follow.''

Vanimórë threw back his head and laughed.  
''Oh dear, this is _so_...amusing. Are they on horseback, my dear?''

''Yes, my Lord, I c-came through the forest, as I d-did long ago, it was the fastest w-way.''

''Then we have a little time before a very interesting reunion.'' A firm hand was laid on Elgalad's shoulder and he was turned.

_ Take him to Esgaroth, Maglor. I will come there when I have finished with this thing._

_ What wilt thou do to him? _ Silver eyes glanced at the man, now beginning to stir.

_ He has committed great evil,_ Vanimórë told him flatly. _ I saw it in his mind. Long ago he killed a youth who rejected his advances, and others have followed since then. He has come to like it. I have known others like him. He would have enjoyed raping and killing Elgalad, and I will ensure the punishment fits his offenses, but Elgalad would not enjoy witnessing it. So take him with thee, and stay with him. For some reason he does not trust thee not to come after me. _ Silent laughter. _ He would protect me. _

That much was certain, Maglor thought.

_ I will find thee wherever thou goest, if thou doth leave this place,_ he vowed.

_ I have said I will come._ Vanimórë turned to Elgalad.  
''Go with Maglor to Esgaroth, I have a room there. I will join thee after I have dealt with this.'' He nudged Hargad with the toe of his boot.

_ My Lord, after, leave this place, go far away..._ The great eyes glittered with unshed tears.

''I will come to Esgaroth,'' Vanimórë said firmly. ''I have lived too long to run from anything now. Go, my dear. This will not take long.''

''Come,'' Maglor nodded. ''Come with me.''

Elgalad bent his head and turned unwillingly, casting frequent looks back over his shoulder as he walked away.

''So few people trust me,'' Vanimórë murmured.

Hargad woke to a clanging headache. He groaned and tried to bring up a hand, found he could not move, and then howled as a hand seized his hair and yanked up his head.

''Awake now?'' The grip loosed and Hargad twisted futilely in his bonds, a stream of profanities spilling from between rotten teeth. He bucked and writhed like a landed fish as a sharp knife sheared through his filthy leggings and wrenched them off.

''In all my life – and that has been long – I have never yet discovered a better way to punish a rapist.'' The voice was steel and ice, then flashed suddenly into bowel-loosening rage,  
''Thou wouldst have raped and murdered one I raised from a child, some-one innocent, some-one pure. And no-one touches him but me, Man. _No-one!_''

He dragged Hargad to a tree and tied his arms back about the stem, then stamped down on both ankles, breaking them. Howls echoed across the lake. He had stripped the sapling and whittled one end to a point. There was no time to harden it with fire, but his strength would compensate. Without apparent effort, he pushed the stake into the man's rectum, and climbing the tree, pulled the body up. It's weight pushed the base of the sapling into the earth.

''Take this advice with thee into the dark,'' he said. ''If thou canst not imagine what it is to take pain, do not give pain. And that is quite enough noise, I think.''  
The screams were inhuman in their agony.

Vanimórë drew his knife and in a methodical move cut off the mans privates, reached up and rammed them into the open mouth.  
''Forgive me if I do not stay until the end – I do not have that much time to spare.'' His smile glittered like the sun-struck lake as he walked away, pausing only to wash the blood from his hands. ~


	67. The Doom I Have Always Feared

  
~ ''Come.'' Maglor strode off, aware that although Elgalad kept pace he continually looked back over his shoulder. The Fëanorion wondered why he was walking so fast until he realized he was attempting to stop the younger man seeing or hearing anything. At the first dreadful scream, he set his jaw and pulled.  
" Do not think about it," he advised as he drew Elgalad along more swiftly.  
He felt the weight of the large eyes come to rest on his face, but did not meet them until the soft voice spoke.  
''Thou didst s-save me and I thank thee. But would it n-not be better to have l-let them kill me? Thou wilt h-have to kill me, thyself, for I will not let thee h-harm my Lord.''

''I am not rational on occasion,'' Maglor murmured then, with a hard laugh, ''Rationality never governed my family.'' He crossed the bridge, looking back from under his cowl wondering if Vanimórë would indeed follow.  
_ I have to lose Elgalad, I cannot have him between us._

Entering the inn, he crossed to the stairs, his hand on Elgalad's back as he lead him up to his room. The innkeeper sent a maid with coppers of water and a pitcher of wine. Once they were alone, Maglor wrung out a cloth in hot water.

''Let me see.'' Bathing the smudged face where bruises lay like shadows, he was assailed by a sudden and poignant memory of his younger brothers as children. He stripped off the stained clothes and paused at the dark marks left by kicks and blows. Anger billowed up, and another memory, of Maedhros, after Fingon had borne him from Thangorodrim. Carefully he washed as Elgalad stood in wincing silence.  
"I am sorry, I know it hurts."

_ He was being cleansed by strong, sure hands, filth running from him, the water felt so clean, the sheets were scented... _ A shiver took him as he dropped the washcloth and reached for a towel.

Unclothed, he saw Elgalad's graceful strength. It was only his face which gave the illusion of youth. And men had wanted to mar it, see it broken, the light gone from the eyes. He was glad they had died. He turned away and poured wine, pressed Elgalad onto the settle.

''Why dost thou love him?'' he asked.

Elgalad's face was naked as he raised it.  
''Is l-love a ch-choice?''

Maglor set a booted foot on the grate and bowed his head, frowning.  
''I have sworn an Oath, but I do not wish thee to come between us and be harmed, or worse."

There was a blur of silver hair and Maglor's arm rose, catching Elgalad's wrist. The dagger flared light along it's blade. Elgalad stared at him, and was thrust down again, a grip of steel about both wrists.

''Listen to me ! Like my brother, Maedhros, I was captured, I was tortured, I was raped – and Sauron saw into my mind, he twisted all that was in there and dragged it out, like filth to show me. The things I hid in secret, my dark hungers...my father, who burned brighter than the Silmarilli themselves...!"  
"He wanted me to speak, to break! Maedhros never broke for Morgoth, how could I crumble for his lackey? He left me at last, I know not how long. And I waited for him to return. He did not. Thy damned _lord_ did!" His teeth snapped together. ''He cut me down, bathed me, gave me wine, lay me between sheets, tended my wounds, let me heal...but I was dying, I knew, I felt it. After so very long, I had nothing left with which to fight, not even the fear of the Eternal Night. He brought me back !'' He straightened, releasing his hold on Elgalad, who did not move.

  
***

  
_His hair hung wet over his back, damp with perspiration, every muscle taut, his hands clenched in silk. Still he would not beg and then a shock-wave of pleasure pulsed through him, more horrifying than pain, because so much more unexpected._

No...No! He could not feel pleasure here ! He wished to die after his long loneliness, could not feel desire; the flames had guttered long ago. Yet the hands, the mouth, reminded him of his father's, of the forbidden thing he had wanted, and he was quivering, throbbing with the need...

_''There can be pleasure even in the darkness...'' And the low laughter of one who knew exactly what he was doing. _

  
''It was not his right to force such on me, to make me want and hate and live,'' Maglor hissed. ''It was not his _right_ to decide whether I lived or died !''

''Oh, come, thou didst revel in it. And so did I.''

Elgalad whirled at the voice, but Maglor only turned his head, the tension in the room crackling like lightning strikes. Vanimórë leaned back against the door, his arms folded, faintly smiling.

''And it _was_ my right, Fëanorion, to give back what mine own father would have taken from thee.''

There was a moment of fulminous silence, before Maglor cried: ''_What?! _''

***

''I survived for two reasons," Vanimórë said. "I was too stubborn to die and because of _his_ blood. I think it made me damn near indestructible. Oh, yes, Sauron could sire children once – Melian was a Maia too, was she not?'' He raised a brow. ''His physical form was not destroyed until the cataclysm which overwhelmed Númenor, and later when Isildur cut the One from his hand. But before that, he could shift shapes, he had a form, for a long time. He was long enough in that form to engender life. And of course, he had help.''

"No woman would live.'' Maglor wanted, _needed_ to deny this revelation.

''The one _thou_ didst rape survived.'' He saw the flinch, the shame. ''Thou doth know the things the Exiles fought in Beleriand, not only orcs and trolls, even Balrogs, there were other things – things which spread darkness, made Tol-in-Gaurhoth and Taur-na-Fuin places of nightshade: spirits imprisoned within fell bodies, werewolves...vampires. Morgoth could do such, keep a soul entrapped in a body for a time. For long enough.''

He saw Elgalad staring at him, blanched and motionless. He shrugged.

''Yes, I am Sauron's son. Something he could twist and make into a weapon, a tool. And a plaything.''

Elgalad looked away, violent emotion shaking his face.  
''H-he... h-he t-tortured thee...raped thee!''_ His son...! _

Maglor's eyes narrowed, black lashes shadowing silver. ''Thou must die, Gorthaurion. Nothing of evil can bear good fruit. Thou shouldst never have been born!''

''No, truly? " Vanimórë said wryly. "Tell me of it.''

Elgalad moved, suddenly, flung himself between the two.

''I saw wh-what was d-done to him ! I will not let th-thee kill him !"

''Meluion, do not interfere,'' Vanimórë calmly set him out of the way. Elgalad flamed into anger.

''I d-do not care wh-who fathered thee! _I l-love thee! _''

Maglor walked abruptly to the window, looking out at Esgaroth.

_Holy Eru, Sauron's son seduced me..._

''I have made an Oath,'' he said wearily.

''Rather a foolish thing for one of thy blood to do, is it not?''

Maglor whirled, his sword hissing from its sheath.  
''Dost thou dare mock me? Send Elgalad away, and let us finish this !''

''Have I not said I am not very easy to kill?'' Amusement shone in the violet eyes. ''And thou, Fëanorion? Art thou eager for death? Before thou doth decide – and I have said I will not run from thee – I will tell thee a thing. Thy father and brothers, they swore an Oath which none of thee could fulfill.''

Maglor's eyes burned. He swallowed dryly.

''And so their souls were sent to the Void," Vanimórë continued softly. "The Void, where Melkor dwells, and Sauron now, the the spirits of those who followed them. Melkor thought it amusing that such burning spirits should be lost to the Everlasting Dark."

_ The Void? **The Void?**_ Maglor's mind screamed in denial but he snarled: ''Why should I believe one who's own cursed father was a master of lies?''

''Because they promised me, Morgoth and Sauron, that I also would go there soon or late.'' Beside him, Vanimórë felt Elgalad's head shake violently in rebuttal.  
''And they taunted me that I would in the end be with the Eldar I had so loved and wanted to be claimed by.'' He paused. ''Knowest thou of the Last Alliance? ''

Maglor said, unwillingly, after a moment: ''Gil... Gil-galad died there, Fingon's son, and many others, I learned of it, from the Nandor of Lindon, long ago.''

''I was a willing prisoner of the Alliance for seven years." Vanimórë told him. "I was captured when Sauron sent me to go east to bring fresh forces. I saw Gil-galad, Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower.''

Maglor stared at him as if waiting for sentence of death.

"I saw thy son. After the bitter victory I heard the voice of a Power condemn Gil-galad's soul to the Void. Because he loved another male. Because he loved _thy son._"

A quiver ran like a whip through the Fëanorion's body. He threw one hand to his head, dug long fingers into his hair.

"I know that thy brother Maedhros loved Fingon. Morgoth and Sauron found such things ironic: that they might do as they wished, rape and torment and kill, but the Elves, in loving another man, broke the Valarin Laws. Dost thou truly wish to go to the Void? Or thinkest thou that the Valar would deal with thee more mercifully than thy brothers and father? It is not the Oath that dooms thee, Maglor, but love for one who was taboo, because in thy heart thou didst want to taste him."

_ Father...eyes of fire, a soul of flame._

"The Valar offered me freedom from Sauron, those pure and holy ones who know _ nothing !_" The contempt in Vanimórë's voice was hard as iron spikes driven into ice. "They cannot judge me. They have no right. I do not regret my desires, and neither, Maglor, dost thou."

Their eyes locked, and in monstrous, helpless pain, Maglor turned away and covered his face with his hands.~

~~~


	68. So Tempting...Innocence

  
~ _The Valar punish love? In Tirion, in Beleriand they did not...Maedhros and Fingon..._  
  
Vanimórë's voice eased into his thoughts:  
_ They waited, Maglor. They waited knowing what would come, knowing that those who transgressed would die and come to Mandos – come to them to be judged. _   
  
_ But Glorfindel returned !_  
  
_ I suspect some intervention there. Anyhow, he was needed to help those who were...worthy, and I do not think he could have remained in Aman._  
  
_ Then it is not the Oath alone which consigned them to the Void? But was it not lifted? _  
  
_ They wanted thee to believe so, certainly._   
  
There was no hope left, no reconciliation. His brothers, his father did not wait in Valinor for him to return.  
  
_ Perhaps I always knew it..._  
  
_There is Nothing in the Void, save houseless souls. Morgoth explored it, sought to use it, but it is Nothing, it was never meant for the Children of Eru, yet they have been judged and cast there._   
  
The sound that came out of him was forced from blood and bone. Maglor fell to his knees. He felt cool hair, a hand on his shoulder: Elgalad, and choked out: "By what right do they judge as if they were the One?"  
  
"Only Eru knows that. But I think they are wrong."  
  
Maglor looked up through his hair.  
  
''Wrong. Yes. _Damn them !_ They did not understand the fire which was within my father. He was right ! They wanted to tame it control it – and they could not...no-one could have!" He rose slowly. Elgalad's hand ran down his back, oddly comforting.   
  
"To the Hells with the Valar," Vanimórë dismissed them. "Eru would be more merciful."  
  
Maglor said, as Maedhros had long ago: ''But how shall my voice reach to Ilúvatar beyond the Circles of the World?'' His words seemed twinned with the despairing voice of his beloved elder brother.  
  
Vanimórë laughed briefly.  
''It should be I who has no faith left. I believe there is more and greater than the Valar because there has to be, because I know that the darkest evil has an opposite in goodness and beauty. I do not believe that the One would condemn his children to the Void for love."   
Maglor thought of Elgalad, still softly smoothing his back, and could not imagine any-one punishing such gentle goodness.   
  
"In Angband, when my first friend, told me of the Music, of Eru, I clung to a belief that whatever happened in Arda there was something beyond it all, that there was One greater even than Morgoth and the Lords of the West. I rejected the Valar," Vanimórë smiled coldly. "but I believe that one day things will be made aright. Until then, however, I would rather stay alive and not join my father and Melkor in the Void. Aman is closed to me unless I abide by their rules and beg their forgiveness for my offenses." The smile became wicked, unrepentant.   
  
"Thou art forgetting one thing, Gorthaurion." That smile was burning silk on Maglor's soul. "I have sworn to kill thee."  
  
"So why hast thou not?" Vanimórë tilted his head. "If thou didst swear by the very ones who meted out such a punishment on thy family, I would forget it."   
  
"_Forget it ! _ As I forget what thou didst to me?"   
  
"_To thee?_ Say also: '_With thee._ Ungrateful bastard ! I think thy father would be grateful – or would he be jealous?" He moved like a snake striking and jerked Maglor toward him, who flung himself back, but the eyes held him, colored glass laid over something dark and brilliant and dangerous.  
  
"Look at me..." Vanimórë laugh was the sultry sound from Barad-dûr. "Yes, thy father would understand. Thou didst call his name at first until I made thee see no-one but me."  
  
Maglor was bound to the rack of his memories.   
_ Yes, father, thou didst always understand everything..._  
  
"W-wilt thou not forgive, L-lord Maglor?" There was strain in Elgalad's soft voice. Maglor hardly heard, did not feel Vanimórë's hands drop from his arms. He only looked up as Elgalad called:  
"My Lord?" to the closing door.   
  
"I am not going anywhere, Meluion, merely to my room. Come, let me see what those filth did to thee."  
  
_ No, he will not run, that one. _  
Alone, Maglor closed his eyes.   
_ Ilúvatar have mercy on my father, my brothers, on those lost to the Night. Even Sauron's son had more mercy than the Valar. _   
  
  
  
***   
  
  
  
In his room, Vanimórë poured wine into a pan and lit the small summer fire to heat it. He turned to Elgalad who had wrapped the towel about his waist and was watching him.  
  
"I killed the Man."   
Elgalad felt the deft, gentle examination of his bruises. Blood rose in his cheeks and he lowered his eyes to the floorboards.  
  
"I h-heard him scream,"  
  
"He had killed many others before thee, and he would have slain thee; thy soul would not survive rape, Meluion." long fingers came under his chin and tipped it up. "I believed thee gone, to the Havens at least."  
  
"I c-came to realize thou wouldst n-not come, and I needed to warn th-thee..." His voice choked in his throat.  
  
"I appreciate that." Vanimórë's expression gentled, he seemed both touched and amused. "But Maglor did stay his vengeance to aid thee, so I doubt I have to watch my back for the moment."  
  
"Will he n-not pursue h-his Oath?"  
  
Vanimórë shrugged, poured hot wine into two cups,and sprinkled in ground spices. "Sit." He handed the goblet to Elgalad and leaned back against the wall. "I cannot say.I never dealt with that bloodline before, though they interested Melkor a great deal. The Oath of Fëanor carried such tragedy. He used to laugh at it..." The violet eyes darkened as at memories. "Maglor was said to be the gentlest of the sons, but thousands of years alone, despairing...and I have just increased his despair a thousandfold."  
  
"Is it t-true, about those...in the V-Void?" Elgalad whispered, "I h-heard it in Imladris, but c-could not believe the Valar w-would truly do such a thing. I did n-not want to...it was why..." he swallowed. "I did n-not want to go to V-Valinor."  
  
"Melkor said it was so. Highly amused, he was. Sauron believed it." Vanimórë ran a finger around the rim of the goblet. "And I believe it. After Gil-galad died and I heard the Powers speak it seemed one would get more from praying to a stone idol. So a man loving another man set a flutter through the Valar dovecote. I do not see what the broohaha is, but then, I am Sauron's bastard, not one of the Powers." He raised his brows wryly, moved from the wall and sat down beside Elgalad. "So, Sauron is gone. And I have plans – if," he added whimsically, "I am not dead."  
  
"I just want t-to come with th-thee," Elgalad tried not to sound as desperate as he felt, "Wherever thou goest. I will not be t-trouble for thee, I p-promise!"  
  
The weight of the amethyst eyes was so heavy upon him that he felt himself grow warm all over.  
  
"Thou art always trouble for me." He drew his thumb over the bruised cheekbone softly. "So lovely, so loyal...so brave and disobedient."  
  
"Thou art _ m-my Lord !_" Elgalad went down at Vanimórë's feet, looking up at the chiseled face where faint bemusement became a sudden flash of anger.  
  
"Do not make the mistake in thinking that because Sauron is gone that I am suddenly clean and noble and somehow good, Elgalad. I have lived too much, seen too much. I am not a gentle man. I wish to find a place to live out the Ages. I am not thy lord any longer, thou art no child who needs me." He sighed then, dropped to his knees and smoothed back Elgalad's hair. "What do I do with thee?"  
  
''I am thine." Elgalad believed his words utterly. "Th-thou hast saved m-my life more than once. I d-do not care who thy father is. Thou wert never c-cruel to me as Malthador –"  
  
''Malthador, who in the Hells is Malthador?'' Vanimórë demanded so harshly that Elgalad jerked back.   
  
''I...it was l-long ago...''  
  
Vanimórë came to his feet like a storm cloud.   
  
"Once, long ago, Sauron mocked me, said thou didst cry out and I would not look. I could not. I wanted thee to be free of me. Another Elf...'' Elgalad gasped as he felt the images of long ago burn back into his mind.   
''This Malthador, does he yet live?''  
  
For one moment Elgalad thought of lying – and saw the brief head shake that warned him not to.   
''He w-was afraid. He thought thee _ Golodh,_ Kinslayer...thought m-me a spy for thee."  
  
''There is never an excuse for cruelty,'' Sauron's son said, all ice and stone. ''I thought I left thee in good hands, where was the king, the prince when this was happening?''  
  
''Malthador said it w-was part of my training, that no warrior spoke of it...in Imladris it was d-discovered and put a stop to. Malthador was stripped of his r-rank for a long time. It is over, please, forget the m-matter!''  
  
''No-one touches thee but me!'' Vanimórë's eyes seemed to hold ember light at their center. ''No-one.''  
  
Elgalad's head shook. ''Thou canst n-not enter the f-forest, they w-would kill thee!''  
  
''Then I will not enter the forest.'' Vanimórë turned to the window, looking westward toward the great, green line of Mirkwood.  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
Maglor was too submerged in his own agonized thoughts to listen to the soft speech from the next room until the words: _"No-one touches thee but me!"_ lifted his head. They were enunciated with such cold rage that he instinctively rose, drew his sword and entered the other chamber with a kick that sent the unlatched door crashing back against the wall.  
  
Elgalad turned He looked troubled but unhurt. Sauron's son had his back to them, arms folded.  
  
''Oh, please, be welcome,'' he murmured, not looking around.  
  
''What didst thou do to him?'' Maglor asked fierily.  
  
''He did nothing,'' Elgalad said quickly.   
  
''Then what has made thee so afraid? Do not lie for him!'' Maglor was grateful for any anger he could summon against the black despair in his heart.   
  
''I am n-not lying." The words came in a stammering rush. ''There was a warrior in Mirkwood who m-mistrusted me, who thought I hid what I knew about...''  
  
''And thou didst not know anyhow. I never told thee so much as my name.'' The violet eyes turned at last and rested on Maglor's drawn sword . ''Oh, do get it over with or sheathe it, Fëanorion!''   
  
''Celegorm's followers were sometimes cruel...'' Maglor remembered his dreams of two children calling in deep, silent woods, and his sword slowly went back into it's housing.  
  
''And we know the difference between strokes laid on the flesh to cleanse the pain of the soul or pain used in bedchamber games and simple cruelty, do we not?'' Vanimórë's voice was a smoky purr. It flashed white flame into Maglor's heart. He curbed a scathing retort, said coldly:  
''Well, do not allow me to stop thee from walking into a Silvan realm and getting an hundred arrows in thee.''  
  
A smile bent Vanimórë's mouth.   
"What, thou wouldst let them kill me?"   
  
"At least thou wouldst be dead."   
  
"I am sorry to disappoint thee, but I will not enter the forest," Vanimórë said. "I do intend to have a little _talk _ with this Malthador, however."   
  
''If thou art still alive,'' Maglor reminded him. "If I let thee live."  
  
''_If_ I am still alive,'' Vanimórë agreed with a charming smile which earned him a glare and the slam of the door back into it's frame as the Fëanorion made his exit.  
  
''Still carries his father's fire that one, it is reassuring. Now there is one I would have enjoyed meeting." He turned. Come here, Meluion. Now listen to me: If I am still thy Lord this time thou wilt obey me.''  
  
''I understand.''   
  
''No, thou doth not," Vanimórë murmured. "But until this is over thou must not be between Maglor and I.''   
  
"I d-do not think he wants to hurt me," Elgalad offered. "Perhaps I c-can...talk to him?"  
  
"I wonder how many people thought they could persuade a Fëanorion? I cannot risk it, Meluion." He passed a hand down the gleam of silvery hair, felt Elgalad lean into his caress. "I wanted some-one for so long, and when I had thee, I could not keep thee. So tempting... innocence. But if I used thee as I desired...''  
  
Elgalad trembled, pressing closer, his uplifted eyes holding a question, a hope.   
''Use me.''  
  
''Do not say that!" Vanimórë snapped. ''I truly fear to destroy that innocence in thee. It is too rare. And I _ would _ destroy it."   
  
''Thou wouldst not. I want thee.''  
  
''I want. Ah, how I want." He gestured toward the wall. ''I had him and saved him, but if I touched thee I would change thee."   
He stepped back, let his eyes move slowly over the tall , graceful figure.  
''I did not dare touch thee when my father lived. Yes, I could show thee pleasure, but thou hast so much love to bestow, Meluion. It is wasted on me.''   
  
_ I lie so convincingly to myself. _   
  
Elgalad's love might be misplaced but it was not wasted, and he knew it somehow. Vanimórë needed him; needed to love him.   
  
_I could drink his sweetness like wine, but what could I give him? _  
  
_Nothing,_ he thought, the teeth of his self-hate gnawing inward. _I can only take._ ~   
  
  
  
~~~

  
  



	69. A Chance To Avenge

 

  
~ Esgaroth slept, and the summer stars still netted the sky when Elgalad woke knowing there was no-one in the room but himself.

After the words which left the Elf trembling with confused longing, Vanimórë had ordered Elgalad to rest. He had been beaten, eaten little and his soul had suffered, he said, as he drew back the blankets and twitched the towel from about the slender hips. There had been no suggestion of intimacy in the disrobing, but standing naked before those violet eyes flooded Elgalad with a sensation like hot wine. He wanted to be wrapped close and safe in the hard arms, breathe in the rich scent and to for them both to lie down together until his hungers were burned away. But Vanimórë only went back to the settle by the fire, looking into the weaving dance of flames. For a long moment, Elgalad watched the carved profile and then slipped into the bed and curled up on himself. He did not believe he could relax, but the sense of safety seduced him into sleep within heartbeats.

Vanimórë rose and walked to the bedside. No observer could have read anything on his face. He had had to conceal his emotions all his life, and such habits could not be discarded easily, if at all. But under the stony facade, his mind seethed with a rage directed both at himself and the Valar. He could not touch Elgalad for many reasons; Elgalad would die of a famine of love, a feast of lust, and in the Halls of Mandos would receive no pity, for he was aware of the fate of those who chose to sin, and yet had sinned.  
Vanimórë watched, as the brief summer night breathed it's sweet breath and then went to the window, let himself down and walked through the silent streets.

***

Elgalad awoke knowing his lord was not in the room. The presence of power and security were gone. It was dark save for the sullen red embers of the dying fire.

He threw back the sheet and rose stiffly as bruises throbbed and he gingerly donned the doeskin breeches, tunic and boots which had been placed on a chair. Vanimórë had retrieved his bow and sword from the men and he buckled on the sword-belt and harness.

_He said he would not leave...yet I pray he has! But not without me, not without me! _

He took a deep breath and opened the door.

The hallway was unlit and silent, and he paused outside the door to Maglor's room wondering, with a surge of jealousy, if Vanimórë was there. There was no sound. His jaw set then, and with a quick movement, he lifted the latch.

His eyes adjusted to the dark, the faint mist of pale light which was the window and then a blade rested against his throat and a voice said:  
''What dost thou want here?''

''I... '' Elgalad swallowed, knew he must not say that he was looking for Vanimórë, who was clearly not in the room. ''I am...going t-to Mirkwood...I w-wanted to thank thee f-for thine aid in rescuing m-me.''

The sword was withdrawn. He heard the hiss as it was replaced in its sheath, then two silver eyes stared into his.

''Thou art leaving him?'' Maglor demanded incredulously.

Heat rose in Elgalad's cheeks.  
' I am l-leaving, yes.''  
Which was not a lie.

''Thou art wise, and I am glad, for thy sake.''

At those words, which held kindness, Elgalad tacitly lowered his head as if in agreement.

''Where is he?''

''I th-think...outside.''

'' Then go well, Elgalad,'' Maglor murmured. ''Find some-one worthy of following, of loving - that one would have brought thee naught but grief.'' His fingers closed a moment on the wide shoulder and then he gave Elgalad a gentle push. ''Go.''

''Lord Maglor?''

''Yes?''

''I would h-have gladly died to experience what my l-lord gave th-thee."

He turned and left, made his way along the corridor, down the stairs, and through the now quiet common-room.

In his own chamber Maglor shook his head, the hint of a bitter smile on his mouth as he fastened a cloak and followed. He did not believe that Sauron's son would flee. He recognized the entrenched inflexibility too well; it ran in his own lost and damned House. He did not believe Elgalad would leave either.

_How old dost thou think I am? And I had five younger brothers... once. _

_ Once._

_Oh, dear Eru..._

***

Elgalad ran over the bridge, heading south about the lake shore where he had met his Lord the year before, calling in his mind. Despair grew in him as no answer came back. Had he truly gone?

_ I do not care what thou dost want of me. Perhaps thou art right and I am as a child. Perhaps I understand nothing, as thou hast said. But I love thee. _

The greyness of dawn opened around him and he realized as he slowed, that he was approaching the place where they had stopped with Hargad. A shudder passed through him at the memory of the Man, and he wondered what had been done to him. He had heard screams, and closed his ears; he could not dwell on suffering, it gave him no joy. Or was...was the man still alive? Being tormented? Is that where his lord had gone?  
The thought appalled him.

_No, my lord..._

He raced through a group of tall silver birch and came to a halt as if running into a wall.

The image branded itself upon his horrified eyes; the makeshift lance holding the contorted body, the shaft thick with black blood, the point protruding through the throat, reducing the body to an obscene lesson in mortality.

''No... No...'' he moved closer, seeing how deep the weight had driven the wood into the rain-soaked earth, his hands smeared red as he tried to move it, to loosen it, to do something...

''Oh, thou fool Gorthaurion, why didst thou not remove this?'' Maglor murmured from the trees and then halted as he saw the riders approaching.

They were not rogues nor lawless men, for they bore the emblem of Esgaroth. Maglor had glimpsed them about for they belonged to the town guard, and their numbers had apparently increased since the War.

He watched Elgalad rise in confusion as an arrow thudded into the grass, and cursed under his breath as the leader dismounted, followed by two other soldiers bearing bows. The soldier was tall, flaxen-pale, a fringe of neat beard enclosing a hard mouth, and a look of competent authority.

''Elf?'' He sounded startled. ''Throw down your weapons carefully. We wondered if whoever did this might return but I am damned if I thought it would be one of your kind. Slowly!''

Elgalad laid down his bow, his quiver and unsheathed his sword, laying the down carefully on the grass.

''I d-did n-not do this, s-sir,'' he protested. ''I f-found him.''

''Perhaps. They say Elves are very strong and why were you trying to take him down?"  
At the silence the Man went on: "These are unsettled times, but things which are done in war are one thing - this?'' The man spat disgustedly on the grass. ''This is abominable! Bind him.''

_ Where in Arda art thou when thou art needed, Gorthaurion? _  
Maglor remained motionless in the trees. He carried his sword, but no bow. He could not help Elgalad save being arrested himself, or killed, and he did not, in any event, wish to attack men who were doing what they were trained to. He needed to find Vanimórë and inform him of what had happened.

''Go easy with him,'' he heard the leader order sharply. ''He is the Elvenking's subject and this matter needs to be probed.''

Maglor waited until the horses were out of sight and then made all speed back to Esgaroth, only slowing his pace as he saw a ripple break the windless surface of the lake and a sleek head emerge. Water poured down the tall body as Vanimórë rose, pushing back his soaked hair. He looked like some barbarous and magnificent god as he came up from the water, and Maglor was furious at his brutal reaction. His mind-call carried a flash of anger which brought the black head around. Vanimórë waded to the bank.

Maglor felt the faint sensation of what he had witnessed surfacing in bright flashes. He was used to sharing words mind-to-mind with other Eldar, of course, or had been, long ago, but this was different. It was uncomfortably similar to how Sauron had so effortlessly, brutally plowed through his mind, save it was subtly done.

''What can we do?'' Maglor demanded, ignoring his partisan inclusion. "Is it too much to hope thou wilt go to them and admit responsibility?''

''Responsibility for _what?_ Ridding the world of a murderer and rapist? Gladly! And then I will be tried by the Men of this town? Art thou trying to amuse me, Fëanorion?''

"Thou wilt not let Elgalad be punished in thy place? They would sentence him to death for murder if he were found guilty !'' Maglor hissed.

''The master of the town would send to Thranduil, the Elvenking, first,'' Vanimórë corrected him. ''Esgaroth has a long history of friendship and trade with the wood-Elves.'' His eyes narrowed briefly, as he considered. ''They dare not simply put an Elf to death, it could cause war.''

Maglor, watching, could not tell what thoughts moved behind it, the purple eyes seemed gems which gave back nothing but fragmented glints of light.

''Glorfindel and thy son cannot be far behind, but I have a little time. I will wait. Thranduil should send emissaries to the town before the evening.''

''And then what? Dost think they will release him to his own people? They want some-one to blame for that atrocity! And Elgalad will never lay the blame on thee! He would die rather.''

''I know he would.'' Vanimórë's answer was somber. ''But he will not have to. However, when he is released, much as I would love to meet thy son, and the Golden One again, I will not be able to remain here. What thou wilt do is thine own choice, just do not hinder me in what _I _ do to effect Elgalad's release.''

''I loathe thee, not him, he is misguided, but I also understand him!"

''I know,'' Vanimórë's smile gleamed and at the furious flash of the silver eyes he laughed. ''How many people had the courage to love thy father, Maglor? He must have burned like the Silmarilli.''  
He turned his head away west for a moment, toward the line of the vast forest. The Fëanorion watched his profile, teeth set so hard his jaw ached.

''The Elven warrior who beat Elgalad is a trusted officer. Thranduil may send him - he might even offer to come, once he learns the name of the imprisoned Elf. I am sure he still bears little love for Meluion. Sometimes,'' When his head turned back his face blazed. "Just sometimes, I believe the One remembers my existance. As he did when thou didst come into my hands."

Maglor spat out words like chips of stone which burned his mouth.  
"What - I was a gift for thee to play with when I wanted to die? Some-one who could not fight thee, could not run?"

"One day, thou wilt admit that I gave thee what thou didst need."

The blow caught Vanimórë across the face. He slowly turned his head back and touched his lips, examining the blood, then put the finger in his mouth like a child tasting honey. Maglor raised his hand again, his wrist was seized and he was dragged forward into a kiss of memory, potent and unforgiving. He tasted blood, wine, was burning, falling, becoming fire within fire...

He opened his eyes. Vanimórë was walking away. For a long moment he stood forcing air into constricted lungs. He was painfully hard. His blood was scalding him as it pulsed through his veins, and his hand was so tight on his sword hilt the muscle spasmed. Ahead of him the arrogant head turned.

"We will settle this _ after _ I have freed Elgalad, Maglor. That will not present a problem. There is no damned lock made by Mens hands I cannot break or force. I have been around this town for a long time, I know where miscreants are housed. Not even below ground, not with a town built over the water.''  
He began to run.

They skirted the Long Marshes to the north and Vanimórë said nothing more. The incident might never have occurred. Maglor had always believed him to resemble Fëanor, but his father had not had that control.

_Save once, but that was a lesson to me, to break the shell I surrounded myself with and show me what desire was. _

And in that, Fëanor had succeeded only too well. But Sauron's son flashed from fire to ice in a eyeblink, and now he waited still as the enigmatic standing stones raised by Men in Ages past. Silence seemed to bleed out of him until he became a part of the long waving grasses, the gnarled tree under which they sat.

Maglor knew that silence, it was the solitariness of one who had had to go within memory and mind so often that they all but left the body which, bereft of the spirit which motivated it, seemed to fade into earth, air, water. He had done it himself, often enough, felt he was drifting into Arda, the ground mist, the dew upon a blade of grass, the wind. Through the fiery wall of hatred, he felt a reluctant curiosity. How could even he comprehend thousands of years of servitude under Sauron and Morgoth? How had it produced one such as this?

_Because I refused to let them be all. I would not let myself become them. I would not permit myself to grovel before them and become the thing they wanted. _

The words in his mind jolted Maglor, and he raised his head from his contemplation of the trembling grasses.

_And here they are, _ Vanimórë added.

Riders emerged from the marge of the forest. Clad in the chestnut and leaf-green of Lasgalen with bows and quivers of arrows at their backs, sword-belts at their waists, they seemed to gather themselves from the trees as if they had been there all along and only now chose to become visible. Four warriors and one man in a long cloak; the advisor to the King, whom had been sent to speak with the master of Esgaroth.

Vanimórë seemed to still even more as his eyes fell upon one of them and Maglor felt his fierce flare of satisfaction.

_ That one, the rider front left on the bay. Malthador. _

They had not discussed what would happen but as Maglor watched, he felt a chill, remembering Doriath and his spirit reared back from it.

_No...no I cannot..._ _I never asked thee to do anything. I do not wish to kill more Elves either. Just that one._

_ And how dost thou purpose to kill one and not the others? Or to avoid them shooting thee? _

Vanimórë looked at him and smiled with the cold brilliance of a star.

_ Malthador hates the Noldor, Maglor. He will come to me. _ ~

~~~


	70. Blood For Blood

  
~ It was almost too easy to rescue Elgalad. The prison guards were neither fools nor inept, but they were dealing with some-one who had lived a very long time. The walls which surrounded the gaol were of wood, and the building usually housed drunks and the odd thief. It was no dungeon, and the town master was concerned at imprisoning an Elf, even for a short time. The Elven-king was respected, somewhat feared and had his own laws for his people.

Elgalad therefore had not been manhandled, but the bruises on his face had been noted and a further, rather polite inspection, brought to light the other injuries on him. That the Elf had been bound and beaten was obvious, and he did vouchsafe that he had been in the hands of wolfsheads, but that he had escaped. It was the truth – simply not all the truth.

''Did you release yourself and then hunt down he who did this?'' the captain asked.

''I d-did escape, but n-no, I did not do that.'' The Elf's gentle stammer clashed oddly with his tall grace, and his face held only innocence and a lingering pain. He did not look as if he would kill some-one in such a horrific manner. Still, appearances could be deceiving, and Elves were an unchancy folk.

''No-one would blame you if you had,'' pressed the man, more kindly.

''I d-did not,'' Elgalad asserted. ''I would n-not.''

But some-one had and so, until the representative for the Elven-king arrived, Elgalad was left, with food, wine and coarse blankets, and locked in.

There were no watchtowers for the gaol, just a wall behind which guards patrolled, their tread perfectly audible to Vanimórë on the other side. They did not see the black shape, a patch of liquid pitch which melted down the wall and slipped through the shadows toward the building.

_Meluion, speak to me._

In the cell, Elgalad, his head on his knees, came to his feet.  
_ My Lord ! _

_ Did they tie thee? No? Good, come to the window, reach up. I have thee. Just wait. _

The windows were a simple rectangle of wood sawn away and metal bars placed vertically in the gap. The barred window was somewhat above head-height, but not above arms reach. Vanimórë reached up, lifted his feet and braced them, began to pull. Muscles corded across his body as slowly bars bent outward.

_Elgalad, come through. Be quick. _

Elgalad jumped, pulled himself through the narrow gap with a wriggle and felt himself drawn to the ground. Before he could speak, Vanimórë pointed to the wall.

_Run._

Where to, my Lord?

Just get over the wall, Maglor is there. I will join thee shortly. And do not damned well argue!

He saw Elgalad nod, and the flit of pale hair as he silently sped across the gap and flung himself over the wall. Vanimórë waited, listening and then followed, melting into the streets.

_Maglor. Wait where we arranged. If there is any trouble, get him away._

He had been correct in his assumption that the master of the town would lodge Thranduil's embassy well. The streets had hummed with the rumor that a wood-Elf was being held in prison for the suspected and ghastly murder of a rogue. The innkeeper at the Clearwater had begun to question Vanimórë and then mumbled into silence, as the strange guest had said flatly:  
"I doubt such a thing. I am sure the truth will be known as soon as Thranduil sends his folk here.''

***

In the house where they were lodged, Malthador looked out at the stars.

_Elgalad, who would have thought it? _ The more logical part of his mind could not quite believe that Elgalad would put some-one to death so monstrously. He and the counselor, Pelilas had both been taken to the man's body and Malthador, warrior though he was, had been shocked. No, he decided, Elgalad would never do such a thing, but it was amusing that he had been charged with the crime.  
His beatings long ago had served no purpose at all save to give Malthador pleasure (and that was not negligible.) He had more courage that one would imagine. Once his acts had been discovered, Malthador had been punished by having his rank stripped from him for a very long time; only being reinstated when the wood-Elves prepared for the Battle of Five Armies, and then only because Elgalad had spoken for him.  
And that rankled, because the king and Legolas had listened to him. Elgalad had been made an officer long ago, which Malthador ever regarded as some sort of reparation for his treatment, for he was no leader. He was, however, a skilled warrior, a fact that Malthador chewed on bitterly, like stale bread.

Elgalad had never mentioned that time, and Malthador's resentment grew. The refugee had fawned his way into the trust and friendship of Thranduil and Legolas, but Malthador ever considered him an interloper and a spy of the _Golodh._ When he had left with Legolas for Imladris, never to return, Malthador had felt both gladness and disappointment that he would never again have the opportunity to show the stammering fool his true place.

The stars showed against the steeply pitched roofs. There were few gardens in the town although there were areas of tillage and allotments about the lake, but Esgaroth had always been a place of streets and close-built houses, which did not suit the Silvan Elves, although they visited here to trade.  
Malthador sipped the rich Dorwinion and paused as a black shape flashed across his vision, jumping from one gable to another. No Man moved like that, and he wondered if one of his companions had left the lodging. He pushed open the casement, and another movement caught his eye from the top of the building opposite. Quite clearly and with a leap of the heart, he saw a gleam of purple eyes before the shadow faded. A voice from out of the past, questioned in his mind: _Looking for some-one?_

A long breath sighed through Malthador's lips. He turned, picked up his bow, buckled on his knife belt, and went to the door.

''Where do you go?'' He turned to look at one of the other warriors, Tatharn, who raised his brows questioningly.

''To the shore. I feel stifled.'' He did not wish to share this discovery. The damned _ Golodh! _ How unsurprised he was to know that _he_ was here at the same time as Elgalad.  
The door closed behind him, and he looked left and right and then followed the black shadow that seemed to mock him.

_ He will not shoot me, he did not the last time, he tied me up like a fowl and left me on the edge of the lake. Again, he is taunting me. _

_ I will meet thee outside the town. _  
The voice was so clear in his mind that he looked around for a moment, expecting the one who spoke to be beside him, then hastened his stride, crossing the bridge and halting. Clear in the star and moonlight he saw a tall shadow moving north.

_I could put a shaft in his back from here a score of times. _  
And he wanted to; his fingers twitched even as he thrust the desire aside. He needed to prologue this, to truly taste his victory.

The town lay behind them, when the one he followed halted and turned.

''Blade to blade,'' he said.

''With true _ Golodhrim_ honor?'' Malthador's hands dropped to his knives. There was a sneer in his voice. ''What do the Kinslayers know of honor?''

''Enough not to have sent a knife into thine eye in the town. Enough to know thine own _honor_ would not allow thee to shoot me in the back,'' Vanimórë murmured, with a smile which flooded Malthador with rage. The starlight caught the gleam of twin blades as they came out of their housings.

''I do not have to shoot thee down like a fleeing _yrch._ You took me by surprise all those years ago. Now we are matched.'' There was a clang as the weapons clashed together, both blades held and locked, as each gauged the others strength before disengaging.

''Let us speak more of thine honor, Malthador,'' the _Golodh_ spoke in the antique Sindarin which was rarely heard in Mirkwood, or indeed anywhere save in books of lore. A flurry of blows ensued as the pace increased, and Malthador began to realize he was pitted against some-one who was very much older than he, had probably fought in many more battles. Each stroke he attempted was met and blocked, and still the man spoke in that odd, lilting accent, without stress or heat.  
''The honor which allows a warrior to flog and torment a younger man under the guise that it is part of his training, making him believe that it is a rite he must pass through, one that was never spoken of, which he never questioned because he was not of thy people and felt a stranger who did not know all their customs.''  
The _Golodh_ disengaged and spun aside and Malthador's back screamed in pain as flat of a blade struck it. He pitched forward, regained his footing and whirled back. The warrior was no longer there. The blade fell again, and Malthador cried out.

''It feels like _ that. _ Day after day, and a heartbeat can feel like a thousand years. Why? because he rejected thee? He was a stranger and had known no Elves, so he jumped like a startled deer – and that rejection stung thee, did it not? That and thy hate of the _ Golodhrim_"

Ice-hot pain seared Malthador's back. He clenched his teeth against it and snarled: "You must have been good, _kinslayer,_ to keep his mouth closed ! Was that how you trained him to suffer your cock in silence?"

"I wish I had had that pleasure."

Malthador turned again, but the warrior was ever behind him and then he screamed in shock as a blade sheared clean through one ankle. He fell to the ground, open mouthed in agony.

"Before I end thy life, I will tell thee two things." The eyes which looked down at him burned red at the center; there was no pity in the voice, no inflection at all.  
"Elgalad is the son of Amroth, once King of Lórinand. And thou hast called me _Golodh,_ and _Kinslayer._" He ignored the moans from the writhing Elf. "And hit near the mark. I have slain Elves, my mother was _Golodh,_ but my sire was Sauron, so perhaps thou doth see why I have no compunction in slaying thee. Thou didst cause pain to one I care for, and _no-one,_ Elf, Orc, Man or Power will do that and escape scatheless!"

The last thing Malthador saw was the glitter of a sword descending, and then the edge cleaved through his neck.

Vanimórë cleaned his scimitars, flicked them back into their sheaths, and melted into the night. ~

***

~ Three leagues to the north, Maglor and Elgalad had halted. They built no fire, but Maglor unstoppered a wineskin and poured two cups for them both. Elgalad drank, but his attention was fixed to the south, toward Esgaroth.

''He will join us, he had...something he wished to attend to,'' Maglor broke the silence.

''I k-know,'' Elgalad whispered. "He will kill M-Malthador, perhaps as he killed the m-man he impaled."

Maglor laid a hand on the taut back. The lonely call of a great grebe echoed across the waters of the lake, intensifying the solitude.  
''He said the Elf whipped thee. And thou canst nor prevent what will happen. As for the man, he was a rapist and a murderer so _he_ says, and I believe it. Perhaps he thought that was a truly fitting punishment for a rapist.'' His voice wove into bitterness. ''A rapist such as I was.''

That turned Elgalad's head toward him. ''But the L-Lady Fanari lives, lord, I h-have seen her in Im-Imladris.''

Maglor shook his head in disbelief. "I do not know how she survived. It was rape. It was not passion, not need, not even lust. It was madness.''

''She w-wanted thy son to b-be born. She t-told me."

''I never thought I would sire children. I do not deserve my son's love or loyalty. I did nothing to earn it, indeed he has the right to take my life.''

''I think he l-loves thee. We cannot h-help whom we love." The reply was gentle and Maglor bowed his head: a child born of violation, conceived under an angry sky, on a day of death and blood.

***

** Havens of Sirion.**

The light of the Silmaril almost blinded him. It made mirrors of his eyes, reflected back it's glory and perhaps he knew the, deep within, that they could never posses it, never fulfill the Oath.

A wave gathered like thunder, finally broke against the cliffs; the white bird had vanished, flying into the west.

There was a silence for one moment and then a woman's voice shouted, "Run!"

All Maglor' s shock, his growing certainty that he was doomed, that the Oath would never be fulfilled, that darkness would take his soul – had already taken it – and the bitter, terrible grief of the death of Amrod and Amras struck him like the surf which raged against the cliffs. He turned toward the woman. The twin sons of Eärendil were clinging to her long skirts as she backed away. As warriors closed in about her, he saw her hit out, and the slap which whipped her head aside. She was in the way, had been with Elwing, the madwoman who had taken away their hope of fulfilling their Oath...

He gestured with one gauntleted hand for the warriors to step back. The twins were struggling, crying out in protest and he heard Maedhros shout:  
''Cease. Be silent !''

Maglor was grief and white fury. There was only he and Maedhros now...only two.

She was easy to take. She had no strength to match his, and lay like one dead, as if the blow to her head or his own violence, had shocked her senseless. He forced himself into her, lost himself in a savage rhythm which bore him away from anguish and exploded into a release which blinded his mind with hot pleasure. He did not hear her scream, but as he rose, tears were running from under her closed lashes. The enormity of his offense against her struck him in the gut like a mailed fist and the glow of satiation drained away. He felt numb, cold.

''Come, Maglor,'' Maedhros snapped.

He turned, strode to his horse and mounted. The twins eyes were wide with loathing and horror, and could not meet them. Madness and rage had withdrawn like an outgoing tide, leaving him hopeless, leaving him damned.

''Do not hurt them !''  
The woman raised herself, a smashed flower on bloody grass. Her face shook; her eyes were scarred with pain, yet held something Maglor suddenly recognized as understanding. It was as as if she knew exactly why he had raped her. It lasted a heartbeat, yet in that moment he felt that she took all his own pain into herself, as she had taken him into her unwilling body.

_I am already damned,_ he thought,weary to the core of his soul. He met her eyes, then turned away to rejoin his warriors. No-one spoke, not even Maedhros, whose face was a mask of ice. It had been thus ever since Fingon's death, nothing seemed to warm it. Nothing ever could... They wheeled their mounts and turned from the wrecked havens, and galloped north.**

~~~

''Were I my son, I would wish to kill the man who so engendered me,'' Maglor whispered, beside the Lake. ~

~~~


	71. To The Edge Of The Sea

~ The horses were balky as the Elves approached the scene of the attack.   
The fire had died, leaving the black-charred remains of the wagon, and the unburied bodies stank under the sun, eyes and tongue already eaten by crows.   
  
They dismounted, soothing the horses and spread out, looking at the tracks, piecing together what had happened.   
  
Glorfindel rose from a crouch beside a body, where a blade had sliced sideways and down, shearing through neck and collarbone, and then knelt by another.  
A warrior who had fought for so long could often tell from the death wounds who had forged the weapons, Man, Elf, Dwarf or Orc. The wounds were always different. Elven great-swords were far more slender than Mannish weapons, though no less strong; some of the alloys used by the Noldor in Aman and the strange dark steel called Eög, created by Eöl, had never been successfully copied by Men or Dwarves.   
  
Every wound on these corpses had been made by a long, slender, straight blade.   
  
''Noldorin greatsword,'' Tindómion murmured, meeting Glorfindel's eyes.   
  
_ My father._   
  
''Let us search,'' Glorfindel slapped him on the back.   
  
They found no Elven body, and no tracks save, in a softer patch of earth beside the trade road, large paw prints heading north. Methodically they covered an area of a league around the site, but no blood splashes indicated that the Elven warrior had been gravely injured. They met back at the camp and then turned and took the trade road to the north.   
  
''He has not lost any of his skills,'' Glorfindel commented as the horses reached into a canter.   
  
''If it was he,'' Tindómion replied.  
  
''The weapon is Noldorin, there are none around here save the two of us. It is Maglor,'' Glorfindel said.   
  
"It could be the other one. Elgalad's lord."   
  
"It is possible, but he bore two blades. And whichever one it was, we know we are on the right path."   
  
''I feel it also. But it has been...so long. And I am still afraid of what I may feel, may do," The Fëanorion looked at Glorfindel who said:  
''Do not worry, I am prepared to do anything to prevent thee damning thyself – and do not think I jest.''   
  
Tindómion smiled faintly. ''I am glad thou art here, my friend.''   
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
Although he made no sound, Elgalad seemed to sense Vanimórë's approach and flung around, taking a few eager steps forward. Maglor frowned.   
  
''We can leave now.'' At Elgalad's silent question, Vanimórë said, "I have no pity for the cruel, Meluion." He reached out a hand. "He died quickly."   
  
As he had expected, there was guilt. Elgalad thought he should have done something.   
  
"He hurt thee and took pleasure in it, he had to die." He watched for fear or revulsion, saw only pain and love.   
  
_Elgalad has no part in what lies between us._   
  
_I agree,_ Maglor returned.   
  
_I will deal with him and then leave, let us end this at the shores of the sea._   
  
The Fëanorion searched his face in the night and then nodded.   
  
_ He will follow us. _   
  
_ We only need a little start on any who come after, I think. Glorfindel and thy son are close. _   
He watched the longing surface and be pushed aside, heard the soft sigh. Elgalad, watching curiously, asked: "What will h-happen now, my l-lord?"   
  
Vanimórë slipped his fingers into the pale hair and murmured: ''Now, my dear, thou wilt rest. Rest.''   
  
The bright eyes in the moonlight began to glaze. Elgalad whispered drowsily, ''He w-will n-not kill thee?''   
  
''Rest.'' _Restrestrest... _ The psionics echoed through the aether, and suddenly Elgalad fell as if boneless. Vanimórë caught him and held him close. He allowed himself one lingering kiss on those inviting lips.   
  
"I will ensure they find him. And then I will leave."   
  
Maglor gave a brief nod. ''For some reason I do believe that thou hast some sense of honor, Gorthaurion. Much as I wish there was no binding between us, there is. I will know how to find thee.'' He bowed formally. "And then it ends."   
  
''Ah, Macalaurë Fëanárian, this will never end.'' Vanimórë smiled, and walked away. Maglor watched for a moment and then himself slipped into the gloaming.   
  
The wheel-rutted road was a scar under the moon, the sleeping figure lay beside relaxed as if in a comfortable bed. Vanimórë waited until he saw what he expected, and that their attention was fully engaged, and then was gone into the night.   
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
''Elgalad.'' Glorfindel dismounted and knelt beside him. There were fading bruises on his face, dim shadows under the bright pre-dawn sky, but no more serious wounds that could be seen. His breathing was relaxed and deep.   
  
''What is he doing out here, alone?'' Tindómion wondered, and at his words Elgalad stirred, his eyes focusing as he abruptly sat up, looked around, as if in terror at what he would see.   
  
Glorfindel said gently: ''Elgalad, tell us what happened.''   
  
''He left me,'' Elgalad said, desolate. "I knew h-he would."   
  
''Tell us.'' Glorfindel's strong fingers closed gently on his shoulder.   
  
When Elgalad had finished his tale, the others looked at one another.   
  
''He does not wish thee hurt, he does not want thee with him for that reason,'' Tindómion said. ''My father follows him, or they are together? I do not believe that !''   
  
''He did n-not kill him ! He saved m-me, Lord Maglor...''   
  
''And he brought thee here to us, because of the man he had killed, that thou wert accused of murdering?''   
  
''I d-did not say that h-he killed h-him,'' Elgalad exclaimed, and Glorfindel shook his head.   
  
''Thou needst not. The man would have raped and killed thee. Death by impalement: poetic justice. We must go.''   
  
''But w-where?''   
  
_Ever he leaves me...I am such a fool, he does not want me!_   
  
It was _Iavas,_ and the first scent of it came to him, a wind from the forest carrying the rich odor of the beginning of the autumn, ripening berries, apples, the first sharpening of the mornings and evenings.   
  
_ I want it to be as it was...those golden days, but more, I want him, I want to be his, in every way, for him to teach me, claim me, love me... _   
  
''We cannot tarry to debate with Thranduil over this, surely he knows thee and knows such an act is beyond thee. And as for Malthador, I cannot summon any grief for him," Glorfindel said grimly. "Besides, that is the business of the king. Where would thy lord go, Elgalad? ''   
  
Tindómion said, his voice firm, without possibility of question:   
''To the sea.'' He looked straight at Glorfindel. "He is so close I can almost feel him, hear his voice, his thoughts. He is traveling away from us."   
  
''He despaired by the ocean, perhaps he desires to end his despair or his life there," Glorfindel agreed. "The horses need to be re-shod and rested, we need provisions, although we can hunt on the way. We could make for Dale, and pass south of the Ered Mithrim and north of Lasgalen, cross the Hithaeglir nigh to the sources of the Mitheithil. From there we head south and west to Lindon. A long road.''   
  
''The road has always been long,'' Maglor's son said.   
  
''I am coming.''  
They looked at Elgalad.  
''Or I will follow. I know thou d-doth both think me a f-fool. But I love my l-lord.''   
  
''Love is not foolish,'' Glorfindel told him. ''Whatever our Laws say.'' His anger was a flash of sun-fire in the night. ''We brought thy mount. Come, we will pass Esgaroth and halt in Dale.''   
  
''I thank thee.'' Elgalad inclined his head, took the reins of the bay horse and mounted.   
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
And so, like a hunter, a wolf, Maglor followed Vanimórë and Glorfindel and Elgalad followed the intuition of Tindómion. The autumn was long and warm and fertile that year after the fall of Sauron, and the journey was not difficult, only long and too slow for all of them.   
  
The leaves, umber, and gold and crimson-flame were at last scattered from the trees by south westerly gales from Belegaer, and the pursuing Elves found themselves in a place of ancient ruins.   
  
Lindon, once the great realm of Gil-galad, last kingdom of the Noldor in Middle-earth. Gone...ruins grown with lichen and fern, slowly crumbling before Time which was relentless, and recked nothing of memory or beauty.  
  
_ Gil !_ Tindómion cried into the silence of the land. _ Gil !_   
  
And Maglor remembered also, though all the lands had changed now, it had been this wild northern shore where he had cast the Silmaril into the sea. He knew why Sauron's son had lead him to this place with its echoes of the past. It was fitting.  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
He had departed Minas Tirith quietly.   
Only Elrond and Mithrandir knew where he went; even Aragorn assumed he was traveling back to his home. This was true, in part, but it was not his only reason for leaving the White City and friends old and new. There was one friend older than any of them who might need him.   
He rode through empty lands, a golden Elf on a swift horse, through the hot, hay-sweet days of late summer.   
  
He had decided to stay at Esgaroth for one night. He knew the people, had seen generations of them and Legolas, son of a king, also wished to greet his father bathed and attired as a prince returning to his people after a victory.   
  
He had paused briefly in the dark before dawn, and ridden on before it was light. Now the sun spangled the lake gold and sapphire, and gleamed on a head of old-gold hair. Thranduil was riding from Esgaroth surrounded by his lords and warriors. At least a score of them.   
  
Legolas said in astonishment: "_Adar!_" and touched his heels to his mount.   
  
The sound of the horses hooves swung the King's head around. For a moment his expression was stern, and then something leaped in his eyes, and he galloped from the escort to meet his son. their hands clasped at the wrist, and Thranduil almost pulled Legolas from the saddle.   
  
"Welcome home," he said.   
  
  
They rode north to skirt the marshes, and for the first part of the journey, Thranduil controlled the conversation by asking Legolas of his part in the Quest. There was no mention of Glorfindel, Tindómion or Elgalad, and tension began to twist itself tighter within the prince. Some urgency must have shown on his face for after a long look, Thranduil drew up and gestured for his people to halt. A breeze shivered over the reed beds, sighed through their hair and Legolas saw his father's profile hard and molded for a moment before he turned and said:   
"Malthador was found dead two days ago, beside the lake. The same day, or night, rather, that I sent Pelilas to the town after we received news that Elgalad was here, imprisoned on suspicion of killing a wolfshead." He paused and his eyes narrowed. "You knew Elgalad had returned?"   
  
"I know, _adar._ Glorfindel came to Minas Tirith. Where is he?"   
  
"I do not know. He escaped from the gaol. Some-one bent the bars back from the outside, and that same night Malthador was killed. Tatharn last saw him leave the house to walk beside the lake. When he did not return by dawn they looked for him – and found him."   
  
Legolas thought furiously for a moment. Elgalad had followed Maglor, who was pursuing the strange _ Golodh,_ and Legolas had said to Glorfindel: _"I know he lives, I saw him. On the Pelennor. He saluted me and rode away. He was in full panoply and helm, but I saw his eyes." _   
  
He had wondered if the enigmatic stranger had perished with Sauron's fall, but he had not seen him in the dark hours at the Morannon. When Glorfindel said he lived, Legolas believed him.   
  
"You know something," the King stated.   
  
"It is only conjecture."   
  
"Your conjecture could be valuable. Elgalad went with you to Imladris, where he was to be escorted to Mithlond, perhaps to sail, now he is here and imprisoned – or was," Thranduil amended. "He was freed from gaol and Malthador, who mistreated him long ago, is found dead with marks on his back that look as if he was beaten – by the flat of a blade, if I am any judge – before he was killed."   
  
"He was not bound?" Legolas asked.   
  
"No he was armed. It was a fair fight."   
  
"You do not think Elgalad killed him." Legolas was relieved at the shake of the head. "He could best him, but no, Elgalad would not kill his kin."   
  
"Then who did kill Malthador?" Thranduil asked.   
  
Their eyes met. Legolas said: "Elgalad was on his way back to Imladris and he met with Maglor Fëanorion." He saw the shock in his father's eyes and went on: "He was taken by Sauron, long ago, and Elgalad's lord released him, he saved his life after torture...by seducing him."   
  
Thranduil shaped a word with his lips, let it mist into nothing.   
  
"Maglor swore one day to find his savior and kill him. That is why Elgalad is here. Maglor had been drawn to find this slave of Sauron, and Elgalad wishes to warn him. He rode to Imladris and Glorfindel and Tindómion set forth from there with him."   
  
"Well, they were not with him," the King said. "They would hardly go unremarked. Nor would the Kinslayer, were he around Esgaroth. And they would have no reason to kill Malthador."   
  
"No," Legolas agreed. "I think Elgalad must have found his lord. But then, where are the others?"   
  
"That is why you are here, is it not? Glorfindel told you they were making for Esgaroth, and you meant to meet them here?"   
  
The prince inclined his head.  
"Yes."  
  
"They must have been in a great hurry, or Glorfindel would have sent a message..." Then Thranduil cursed. "I feared for your life, only Eru knows how much. I feared each day as the darkness deepened, and now you will go again, to come between a Kinslayer, and some renegade _Golodh_ who served Gorthaur for centuries, because Elgalad could be in danger." He made a gesture as if releasing something into the air. "I have sent out scouts and you have ridden far. Wait two days. Rest your horse and yourself. Reprovision. If any-one has passed east or north of my kingdom, we will find traces."   
  
Legolas smiled. "Thank you, father."   
  
And as he rested that night he heard again the call of the white gulls as he had heard them at Pelargir, beating upriver from the sea, and he saw Belegaer, vast and wild. Pine and silver birch danced in the wind and a golden figure held a star in its hand.   
  
He heard the eternal mourning sigh of the ocean through his dream. The sun rose in the west in black fire and storm-gold. He felt the touch of Glorfindel's mind, but no words. And he knew why. In Minas Tirith Glorfindel had said:   
_ "This is the time for thee to be with thy father, Legolas, thy people."   
  
"Elgalad is one of my fathers subjects," Legolas argued. "And my friend."   
  
"Istelion and I are also his friends."   
  
"Yes, but you intimidate him." Legolas had been unable not to smile at the expression on Glorfindel's face.   
  
"How in Arda could I intimidate him more than the one he calls his lord, who is bound to Sauron?" Glorfindel demanded.   
  
"He was raised by that one; it is different, you intimidated me, and Istelion is Fëanorion and intimidates every-one."   
  
"I think I should intimidate thee again, wood-Elf, do not laugh at me !"   
  
"He will need me, whatever comes to pass," Legolas said more softly.   
  
"Thy father and Mirkwood also need thee in this time," Glorfindel drew him close. "What is it about the Wood-Elves, it is like trying to herd cats or chain the wind." _   
  
And there it had hung. Glorfindel had been unable to tarry long and the Prince realized he was behaving exactly as Elgalad had, not lying, but refusing to be bound by his sworn word, leaving himself options.   
  
He woke and sat up. He could not be free of the scent of the sea...   
  
_ It was a legend even among my folk, that Maglor wandered the shores in sorrow and lamentation._   
  
He had been restless ever since that south wind had brought the scent of brine up Anduin in the Sunless Days. He did not feel that now, but the urgency within him increased. The sea-sound in his mind did not now speak to him of gem-strewn shores far away, but lonely northern ones. And his dream lingered in his mind. ~   
  
  
  
~~~

~~~


	72. The Chosen

  
**The Chosen.**

  
_ "Let there be Light in the Everlasting Dark."_  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
  
~ Ahead of the riders, the green gloom was pierced by daylight. Here the path through the forest ended, passing under two ancient gnarled trees. Beyond lay the land east of Anduin.  
  
The air was poignant with autumn but the sun was bright, and far away the Towers of Mist burned white against the blue pallor of the sky.  
  
"It is not so dark now," Legolas turned to his father.  
  
"It is the Greenwood once more," Thranduil said. "Or will be. And we will rejoice in it again as Men forget and the Ages fade one into another."  
  
"There will be no King of Lasgalen but you, _adar._"  
  
"So I have made my choice and you have made yours? Has the sea claimed you, Green Leaf? I doubt it."  
  
The Prince's dark brows drew together, as if in faint trouble. "I hear the sea. It called to me. But it has not claimed me, how can it when I am already claimed? "  
  
The King smiled and lifted a hand to the alabaster face gilded by morning light.  
  
"Go well, then, with my love. And be careful."  
  
~~~  
  
Blue clouds snapped across the sky as Legolas rode north with the wind in his face. The lands had changed since the war. The dark things which had lurked in the mountains seemed to have vanished or fled. The song of the redbreasts on the branches of the birches were high and clear and merry as if they rejoiced.  
  
The fence of the Greenwood marched beside him, its trees melting from green into yellow and bronze. In the mornings the grasslands wore cobwebs and frost like gossamer veils, and when the sun rose in red splendor it gilded them with diamonds.  
  
He would not have seen the fire until he was close to it. It was Arod who lifted his head with a soft nicker, ears flicking forward. Legolas dismounted, hands moving to nock his bow, an instinctive reaction, for he felt no danger. He would have wagered his father's kingdom on whom he had found.  
  
"It is a good thing I did not ask for thy word," Glorfindel said as he put back his hood, gleaming in the night.  
  
"You never asked for it." Legolas lowered his bow.  
  
"No," Glorfindel admitted, his eyes holding both amusement and annoyance. Legolas felt that the hidden laughter was uppermost, but the concern was evident.  
  
Elgalad came to him in a wordless rush and embraced him. His face had molded itself around a gallant stubbornness the Prince was familiar with. He was hiding something and miserable that he had to.  
  
"I never believed that you would stay at Mithlond," he murmured. "What happened? I know Malthador is dead."  
  
"Much has happened," Glorfindel said dryly. "Come, sit down."  
  
Tindómion fed the fire, linked his hands on his knees. His eyes were opaque silver as if he saw nothing save Maglor, walked with him, rested when he did, shared his steps, his thoughts. The bond between father and son was beginning to meld, as if a master smith were bringing together two pieces of metal and forging them into one. On this journey, all of Tindómion's focus had been on Maglor. He was drawn in his father's wake.  
  
"Elgalad, how is it that alone you get into such situations?" Legolas asked.  
  
"How is it that one would have to nail a wood-Elf's foot to the floor with an Oath to have him do anything reasonable?" But Glorfindel smiled. There was sorrow in it. "So many of thy people died on Dagorlad, Legolas, lightly armed and unwilling to fight in the ranks of the High King's army, yet their bravery will ever live in my mind."  
  
The prince looked at him and returned the complicated smile.  
"The most arrogant and _unreasonable_ of the Kindred's asks me that?"  
  
"A hit." Glorfindel put up his hand in acknowledgment and Tindómion glanced up, laughed briefly.  
  
"Maglor...lawless men." Legolas felt the bite of anger at that. Elgalad would not elaborate, but he had said enough, and his eyes were eloquent. The prince laid a hand on his arm and felt it rigid as his bow.  
"And Malthador..." He tightened his fingers a moment. "I doubt you could have saved his life. So, your lord left you, and he and Maglor go west?"  
He thought of his dream of the ocean, gulls mewling, the smell of salt, the heave and sigh of waves like lovers in rapture. His brow creased.  
  
"I feel him," Tindómion said matter-of-factly.  
  
"I dreamed of the sea - ever since hearing the gulls." Legolas mused. "I thought – But why this chase? Maglor saved your life, Elgalad, he was fighting _with_ your lord against those Men. Why, when they met and after you were rescued, did Maglor simply not challenge him?" He watched Elgalad's face in the glow of firelight. After a moment, the other said, with difficulty: "It is n-not so easy, I think."  
  
Legolas raised his brows in question and Glorfindel flattened his palm and then rose, gesturing with his head.  
  
"Maglor both hates and desires." The words were low. "It is not so uncommon. Perhaps he is loathe to end this. And I would imagine Vanimórë knows it. That _is_ his name," he said as the Prince shaped a question. "Elgalad told me; but there is something he is not telling, he is girding all his will to keep out my mind, and I do not wish to force him to tell. Perhaps thou canst persuade him?"  
  
"I will try," Legolas agreed.  
  
But Elgalad could not be drawn. He told of everything he had witnessed and seen willingly enough, but when Vanimórë was mentioned the closed expression intensified. He became almost as silent as Tindómion as the winter came down from the north, scattering the last of the leaves across the quiet green of Lindon.  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
And so, at the last it came back to the shores of the ocean where Maglor had walked so long in madness and sorrow.  
The two of them alone, a meeting which the Fëanorion had vowed would come since before the seas were bent.  
  
There was nothing between them but the silver of their blades, no sound but the cry of gulls, the muted sigh of Belegaer. A clear day on the threshold of winter, frost riming the sand in the cliff shadows...  
  
They stood facing one another, hair streaming in the brine laden air, firm sand under their booted feet in the small bay where Vanimórë had waited under granite cliffs.  
  
The sand did not stir as they fought, warriors whom had learned these arts so long ago that the land itself had changed form. The scimitars clashed against the longer Aman-forged blade in a dance of steel.  
  
''Art thou so eager to die?'' Sauron's son asked as the blades locked.  
  
''Art thou afraid to? Do we not both end in the Void?'' hissed Maglor as he disengaged.  
  
Horses hooves approached, thundering over the sand, the riders rounding the southern arm of the inlet where the cliffs tumbled down to tide pools and sea-worn rocks.  
Tindómion released a groan that held agony, flung himself from his horse and stepped forward. A grip like steel clasped his arm. He half saw, through the burn of fear across his mind, two pale haired figures struggling, Elgalad fighting to get to Vanimórë, Legolas holding him back.  
  
"Istelion, _no!_" Glorfindel snapped.  
  
The Fëanorion's silver eyes were fixed upon his father, the magnet and the metal came together in a searing union. The face, the eyes might have been Tindómion's own.  
  
"_ Father..!_"  
  
"Vanimórë will not kill him!"  
Glorfindel's fierce declaration was loud enough to reach the dueling pair. Perhaps in their concentration they did not hear, but Elgalad, held against Legolas, his eyes fixed on the two, cried:  
"Maglor w-will kill _** h-him!** Vanimórë is Sauron's _son!_" _  
  
There was an infinitesimal moment of silence, tiny as a pinprick, enormous in its magnitude, and then too much happened too fast.  
  
Tindómion reacted like a war stallion under the spur. He broke Glorfindel's hold in one surge of strength, and Legolas' grip relaxed for a heartbeat in pure shock. He turned his head instinctively, and Elgalad tore from his arms and ran toward that flickering storm of blades.  
  
Vanimórë had fought in many battles, as had Maglor, and his senses were attuned to whatever was around him. In war one could not trust that the enemy would have the good manners to allow two combatants to duel uninterrupted. One had to have eyes in the back of ones head.  
  
Maglor realized only heartbeats into the combat that Vanimórë was defending, that he did not wish to harm him. The violet eyes held an elusive smile that goaded him into white rage. He neither saw nor heard the arrival of the others.  
  
_ I will not kill thee Maglor. _  
  
_ I **will** kill **thee** Gorthaurion! _  
  
Vanimórë was an ice-cold fighter. He should never have done what he did. But from somewhere beyond the world, a mighty hand plucked at a note on the harp of Fate.  
_ Eyes in one's back..._  
He sensed some-one was behind him, and in battle that meant only one thing.  
Danger.  
  
He spun, one scimitar flashing out. It was a move he had used many times, his speed and strength enabling him to continue his fight without pause, a turn that would complete itself with him coming full circle to re-engage his opponent.  
  
But what he struck was not a weapon. He felt the tip of the blade slice flesh, heard a gasp, more of surprise than pain, and as he came out of his spin he saw Maglor looking past him with shock blanching his face. And he knew... he _knew_...and he turned.  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
Elgalad sank to his knees, one hand at his throat. His fingers were pressed to the savage gash between shoulder and neck. Blood was pluming from the severed artery in crimson bursts, soaking into his tunic, spattering his silver hair. His eyes were wide as he looked up. He opened his mouth to speak, and blood burst from his mouth, bubbled in his throat. He coughed, ejaculated scarlet in a great gout, tried again to speak.  
  
_No..._  
  
The scimitars hissed into their housings. Vanimórë flung himself down on the sand and drew Elgalad into his arms. _Elgalad...!_  
  
''My l-lord...!'' A pool of blood rose in the Elf's throat, and scattered out in a spray which dashed across Vanimórë's skin.  
  
''Hush, my dear.'' Vanimórë's voice sounded strange to him, preternaturally calm but with a scream of denial under it.  
  
''Do n-not leave m-me, again...'' Panic flared in the grey eyes as Elgalad choked, unable to draw breath. He was drowning in his own blood, and that wide gaze pleaded for aid, for air, from the one person he had always believed could do anything.  
  
And Vanimórë could do nothing. He had seen death wounds numberless times. Elgalad moaned, a desperate and terrible sound, gripping at the strong arms that held him.  
  
_Didst thou ever...love..me? _ Red fountained from his throat and the wound in one last leap, his body arched and then the light in the great eyes went out.  
  
A thunderous silence settled over the little bay. The last of the wind died in a sharp final gust, like an exclamation of unbelief.  
  
_ I killed him...  
  
The only one who loved me since my twin died. Innocent, loving...I killed him. I tried to save him from myself and I killed him....  
  
Meluion..._ He dropped his head. Elgalad's skin was still warm.  
  
All went night dark within him.  
  
"**Finish it !**" He raised his head.  
  
Maglor lowered his blade, horror draining him. He felt, rather than saw, a figure with bronze hair step to his side, Glorfindel and another were beside him.  
  
Tindómion, with a snarl of wild hate, raised his sword. Sarambar met it with a clash.  
  
''**No.**''  
  
''No,'' Maglor echoed.  
  
''Finish it, Fëanorion!''  
He was so cold, he was falling down a bottomless crevasse, and could see no end, nothing to hold...  
  
_Everything they will take from me, everything. Even now. _  
He could hear, in his mind, mocking laughter.  
  
''He will be reborn in Aman.'' There was pain in Glorfindel's voice, and Vanimórë came to his feet, his face stark and wild.  
  
''I cannot enter Aman !_ I rejected the bloody Valar ! _ No ship would bear me ! They would not permit me entrance ! _And they would never allow him to depart !_''  
  
Glorfindel met his eyes seeing, under the gemlike hardness a madness which was rising, consuming Vanimórë ravenously. And then he threw back that beautiful head and laughed.  
  
''The Valar have no pity for those outside their Laws, Glorfindel. Have they?''  
  
On the sand, Elgalad lay dead. Legolas was beside him, wheaten hair streaked red, his face hidden. Maglor stood as if frozen out of time. His son looked as if he had found the world and lost it in the same moment.  
  
Something glittered in the fitful sunlight. Tears were streaking Vanimórë's face, for the first time in thousands of years.  
  
_Meluion..._  
  
''I will not beg the Valar – and they will not keep Elgalad from me, he is _ mine !_''  
  
_My Light in the Darkness of six thousand years..._  
  
He opened his mind and dark divinity detonated through him.  
  
_Come then! Is this not what thou didst want of me? Father? Melkor? _  
  
A wind struck him, blasting the sand at his feet, shredding his hair into ribbons. Lightning forked across the pale sky.  
  
He ran to the water's edge – and changed. A great white gull took the updrafts into the air, becoming an albatross, that mighty wanderer of the open ocean. It dived, hitting the waves as a sleek dolphin, the shape changed again, a whale sounded and became one of the monstrous dwellers of the deep, a giant squid. His consciousness was tucked away into a corner of his mind. He was just another denizen of the ocean.  
  
And here...so far down, so far out, he felt the tingle of power.  
  
The abyssal deep, two leagues straight down, cold...dark...yet not utterly without life.  
  
_Tell me how ! _  
He waited. He needed a shape which would withstand the tremendous pressures at those depths, he had felt the density of the water pounding on each form he took, but he needed to descend still further.  
  
_I call on thee Ulmo, whom ever loved the Elves ! I beg thee ! _  
  
An image formed in his mind. He melted into it, shape after shape, strange creatures of the deep ocean, and he dived, breaking through the layers where the water grew colder, darker and yet he could see.  
  
And then there was blazing Light. It pierced his mind, and his form frayed. He struggled to hold it.  
  
_The pain...thou knowest pain...fight it...endure it!_  
  
**Look, then! **  
  
It was a thunder like the sea, and Vanimórë was himself, protected within Ulmo's power, held by him, and he saw –  
  
Himself in Angband, chained, raped, shackles clinking as he reached...reached...toward two flaming jewels set in an iron crown...  
  
But he had been young then, innocent, now he was six thousand years older and had done what he had done. Unholy. Evil. Son of Sauron. _Murderer, kinslayer .. unclean...filth. Whore. Slave...._  
  
The pain was beyond anything physical, it entered into his soul, illuminated every act, thought, every moment of his long, long life.  
  
Like the blows of a mace he saw himself kill his sister, kneel beside a dying thrall, release Maglor from Barad-dûr, rescue a young Sinda prince, guide a woman of Lórinand to Edhellond, care for her, bury her beside her lover, raise her child. The child who loved him...whom he had slain...  
  
He was open. There were no defenses. His will braced against the demolition of his entire ego.  
  
In the abyss, the Silmaril was a star.  
He reached –  
– and clasped it.  
  
The agony...his soul was excoriated, burning without end. Before darkness took him he saw the gem as the center-stone of a circlet above a face of breathtaking beauty...  
  
And Fëanor smiled.  
  
He came to himself flung on the beach in a winnow of kelp and seashells. Fire seared his throat as breath rushed into him. He retched, vomited sea water.  
  
''I was commanded to aid thee in this.'' Ulmo's eyes were deep as the ocean, glinting with strange phosphorescent light through the tresses of his hair. ''And thou didst look and hold and it did not destroy thee. It is done.''  
  
Vanimórë said: ''And _this_ takes me to Aman.''  
  
A sprinkle of water, a sigh like a wave, and Ulmo was gone.  
Vanimórë drew his hand from where it was clutched at his breast. Light welled through his fingers, showing bone.  
He opened them slowly. In his palm the jewel flamed. So much fate, so much beauty, blood, grief..._ power..._  
  
Every bone in his body, every muscle and nerve screamed as he rose, stumbling. The palm of his hand was burned white, the facets of the jewels traced on it in silvery lines, flames danced over the patterns, white as ice.  
  
The men on the beach stood as if struck to stone as the Silmaril blazed, blanching the sun to a pale candle-flame. Vanimórë opened his soul to what had waited for him since birth – and met it with a will forged in the depths of the Hells of Iron.  
  
This was Power upon Power.  
  
The seas seemed to draw back to the margins of the world, and a land rushed toward them. White towers like needles of marble pierced into the sky, and above all rose a vast mountain of snow.  
A blaze of Light flamed across the sky.  
  
Vanimórë felt the gathering of the Powers of Aman, their anger and astonishment, and under it – fear.  
  
_Yes. Fear me._  
  
They battered at him, but he refused to be denied, and what was working through him was greater than they. Greater than him.  
  
These Powers had not suffered. They had withdrawn from the world, choosing one land to enrich and beautify and fence behind the Pelori.  
  
Like a white-hot blade Vanimórë simply passed through their defenses, holding aloft the jewel which coruscated with triumph. It lead him toward something he _knew_ was there. Morgoth had spoken of long ago when he tormented Sauron's son with vision's of the Eldar and Valinor.  
  
_Fos Almir. The Bath of Flame._  
  
It seemed a curtain from sky to earth, rippling with all colors, and from it beat the greatest Power Vanimórë had felt in this place .  
  
_The Valar will never act, never see justice done. Even I can show more mercy than they. And I have **nothing left to lose.**_  
  
He walked into the flame.  
  
And darkness descended over Valinor for the first time since the Two trees had been destroyed.  
  
Vanimórë was annihilated, remade, and through it all, through an abyss of agony and shattering power, he held to the Silmaril. He knew his body was burned away, knew he died, and then –  
  
– the flame burned white.  
  
Light exploded over Aman.  
  
  
And beyond the world, Eru looked into Arda Marred and saw all.  
  
He had chosen long ago.  
  
Trailing fire like cerements, Vanimórë stood before the dead body of the one he loved. Legolas sat back on his heels, his face blank.  
  
"_Come to me,_" Vanimórë commanded Elgalad's soul. Power jolted through him like lightning striking, and the wound began to fade. Elgalad's chest lifted with a gasp of breath, long lashes fluttered open, showing eyes clear and dazzled.  
  
_Power..._  
Glorfindel stared at Vanimórë. It was stamped behind the purple eyes, wild and terrible and beautiful. Behind him, Valinor gleamed cold and pure.  
  
''Elgalad Meluion.'' Vanimórë raised Elgalad, ran a hand up his back, drew him close, and then turned his head as if he were a wolf snapping at squabbling cubs; a knife-blade flash of white teeth, a blaze of the eyes.  
  
_Stay back! _ His voice shivered the ground and the sky boiled into black thunderheads. The Valar were distant and misty against the solid core of black fire which Vanimórë had become.  
  
''_ Thou hast not the strength now!_''  
Gently putting Elgalad aside he spun to face them. ''Thou didst choose to languish here, and here thou shalt remain with all those who wish to live a life in a gilded cage! More people have died through thy reluctance to act than ever would have if thou hadst chosen to. Thou hast used Eru's Children as tools to keep thine hands from the blood and muck of War. Thou didst never understand the Children of Ilúvatar, for thou _art not their Father!_ Thou knowest nothing of how they love or hate, comprehend nothing of their grief or pain! Punishment was meted out to those who dared to disobey Laws made in jealousy and ignorance. Thou didst never have the right to judge the _Eruhini!_"  
"And so now thou shall abide here until the Ending of All Things, and have no voice in the unfolding of Arda. Thou hast never changed – Ilúvatar _is_ Life; the root of it, the fount of it, and Life is ever changing !"  
  
**And yet, there must always be a balance. **  
  
All Aman heard that voice. It was greater than any, it was in the air, the earth, the sea which sighed against the gleaming beaches, about all things and within them. It was omnipotent. It was Creation. It was the Beginning and the End.  
  
Vanimórë bowed his head.  
  
''Yes, Father, there must always be a balance.'' His eyes were indrawn for a moment, and none but he knew what the One said to him then. He nodded, smiled, and turned.  
  
The Silmaril of the Oceans coruscated in his hand, a living diamond.  
  
"It is another rebirth, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower." He walked toward Glorfindel who stood rigid as if braced against a storm. Behind him, Fos Almir roared with silent power. His eyes reflecting the jewel's glory, Vanimórë held out his hand.  
"This is not for either of us I think, but it cannot be in my keeping." He leaned forward and kissed Glorfindel on the mouth, and turned away.  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
It did not burn him although his fingers quivered and tingled about it. He knew what the Silmarilli were, what was within them – and it was far more than the Light of the Trees.  
Glorfindel turned, and Fos Almir was there.  
_Another rebirth and the greatest._  
  
His body became white flame, the sound of his cry was torn away and through it the Silmaril pulsed like heart, a spirit.  
  
He was gold and fire. And he knew what he now was.  
  
He walked out of Fos Almir like the sun, and the jewel was a star in his hand. He saw Middle-earth in all its splendor, Aman in its aloof purity. He saw everything, felt every soul, save for those judged by Námo, cast out as dross upon a slag-heap.  
  
He said, "_Let there be Light in the Eternal Dark !_"  
  
He lofted the Silmaril and hurled it. Like a comet it traced a path through the skies and then hung there. Darkness opened about it, a nothingness that spread as if it would devour the jewel, feed on its light and all other light until it covered the whole world. The Void, the Everlasting Dark. But the Silmaril flared against it, shone into the place where the condemned were held.  
  
And it was answered.  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
_There was green, gold. There was light, after so long, when all he had been was a houseless flame which refused to go out, to be eaten by the Night.  
  
The spirit was aware of weight, of flesh, of solidity forming around the soul. He felt air rush in to lungs which began to inflate and deflate, felt his heart begin to beat. He staggered, regained his balance. Long hair fell like water against his back.  
  
He went down on his knees again, just breathing, seeing each mote of sand below him, feeling its granular texture. The wild scent of brine was in the air. With a powerful surge and bunch of sinew, he forced this new body to its feet. For a moment the weight disoriented him, and then his soul forged with it as hand into a glove.  
  
Fëanor raised his head._  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
Vanimórë, Dark Prince and god, looked at the new Vala of the Elves with a smile. He inclined his head, and touched Elgalad's cheek.  
''I need no Silmaril,'' he murmured, ''My Darkness — has its own Light.''  
  
And they vanished in flame. ~  
  
  
  
~~~

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is of course AU - But the Bath of Flame (Fos Almir) is canon. In Tolkien's writings in HoME, pertaining to the End of All Things and the Last Battle, he tells that, as a kind of apology for not intervening with the curse laid on their lives, the Valar made Turin Turambar and Nienor his sister, ''Shining Valar.'' They entered that Bath of Flame as Mortal souls after their deaths by suicide and became Powers. In one version Turin defeats Morgoth at the Last Battle, (Dagor Dagorath) , although there is more than one version. But the idea for the last chapter is based on Tolkien's writings.
> 
> Eruhini - children of Eru


	73. The Beginning

  
~ They were naked as newborns, with a look of brightness as if they had been scoured by fire. They _were_ the fire that had been banished, leaving Valinor to dream in cool pallor. Some had made an Oath they could not fulfil, some had knowingly broken the Laws of the Valar, and the unspoken ones of their own people.

Glorfindel named them. His voice brought their heads around, their brilliant eyes to his. He saw the horror of Night behind their shock, and his face hardened at the thought of their punishment: Ages in the Void, unable to touch another soul, to feel, mocked and taunted by spirits of hate.

Fëanor, Fingolfin, Ecthelion, Fingon, Maedhros, Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin, Amrod Amras, Gil-galad. And there were others whom he had not known had doomed themselves, and some sought out the faces of their lovers and moved toward them.

The Valar were silent, some had stood aside, and their was pity and regret in their faces.  
Glorfindel saw Ecthelion make one movement toward him and then stop, his eyes intent.  
Fëanor had not looked away from him, or what he held in his hand.

"Three Ages of the World have passed and the shadows grown long since thou didst die, Fëanor," Glorfindel said and then he paused, because Fëanor had been aware, had been shown the death and the blood, the grief and despair.

"Yes, Laurëfindë. I know what has been." A brief flash of pain and guilt crossed his face, and Glorfindel heard his thoughts.  
_ I doomed my sons to death, I doomed my people, I betrayed those who loved me. _  
Aloud he said, "Morgoth tormented me, showing me my sons and others, their deaths, the battles lost, the doom wrought to its bitterest ending. He sought to break my soul. And we could not touch in the Void."

"Thou didst touch us. We felt thee, the only light in that endless Night, but we could come to thee."

Fëanor turned then as Maedhros walked into his arms, burying his face in the glassy black hair, and that broke the long, frozen moment. His sons came to him to hold him, one another, feeling reality, the wonder of touch and sight and sound after nothingness. They had clung to their memories against the dissolution of their souls, as a bastion against the mockery of Morgoth and those who inhabited the Void.

"What did he do to thee long ago?"

Glorfindel felt Ecthelion beside him, their eyes met with love, ancient friendship, but the unspoken things were there. They had always been there.

"Does it matter, Ecthelion? Did we not burn?"

"In life and in death – after he touched thee."

"Yes." Molten gold was running in his veins, Arda opening like a flower under his eyes with the future that the One had shown him.  
"There is a place for the Exiles, but it is not here."

"In Endor?" Ecthelion's eyes held his.

"Yes, a place prepared for us, waiting from the beginning, once it was Cuiviénen, and though the lands are changed it is still there: an inland sea, the Wildwood, the Mountains. We can live as we desire, under our own laws."

"What art thou?"

"I am Glorfindel." There was an ocean within him, and it was Power, but he knew he could take as much or as little as he desired. It had overwhelmed him in Fos Almir, now he stood apart from it and yet was of it.

"That is not all thou art."

"No." He turned his head then.

Maglor was the only one of Fëanor's son's who had not moved. He was watching with an ardent yearning melding with with guilt and shock. Tindómion stood close by, just as motionless.

"Father."

"Father !" The two voices spoke at once, the same forged gold, the same longing. Glorfindel walked across to them, laid a hand on Maglor's shoulder, turned him.

"Adar?" Tindómion's face was a battleground of memories, but then he moved, as if he would not risk this moment slipping from him, and they came together as all of that blood did, in fierce, passionate love. And Fëanor was suddenly there, his arms about both of them, his eyes closed for a long moment, before he leaned his brow against his son's black head.

And Maglor wept.

"Legolas."

Glorfindel's voice brought the prince's eyes to his. Ecthelion was watching curiously.

"This is Legolas, Prince of the realm of Eryn Lasgalen." He laid his hand on the straight back in a gesture of possession. He saw Ecthelion sound the depths of it.

"Glorfindel..." Legolas enunciated slowly, "What – happened?"

"Yes, Laurëfindë," the question was echoed by a voice resonant and fierce as the fire that burned in his eyes, in the Silmaril Glorfindel held. "What did happen?"

***

~ ''What...'' Elgalad's voice was hushed. ''what h-happened, my lord?''

They were standing close to a road. The early setting of a wintry sun cast gilt light across the fields and small copses where a few withered leaves still clung to the boughs of the oak trees.  
Not far away a hill rose against a sky of ice yellow and violet. Lamplight was beginning to twinkle in the homes which lay at its feet and climbed its round slopes. There was a smell of coming frost and woodsmoke. A redbreast called before it went to roost. A sense of peacefulness lay here at the close of day. Smoke from the houses of the little town wove up, dove-gray in the windless air.

And yet...

Elgalad suddenly made a sound, his hands flying to his throat and he looked down at his green tunic, still damp and dark with blood. His eyes rose, wide and shocked.

''I killed thee,'' Vanimórë murmured. ''I killed thee. Do not come near me when I am engaged in conflict. Ever.''

''I...d-died...?'' Elgalad asked huskily.  
_I died...I felt myself dying...and I was gone..._

''Thou art a fool !'' Suddenly he was swept against the tall, hard body, the arms locked around him and a voice spoke into his blood-clotted hair:  
''Do _not_ do that again !''

Elgalad melted into the embrace and clung with all his strength.

''Do n-not leave m-e again, my l-lord...!'' He remembered the sheer surprise, and then pain, the horrific sensation of flowing blood which could not be stemmed, the terror of choking, no air, no breath...darkness swallowing him, his last sight of violet eyes...

And yet he lived. He had opened his eyes to to life, and was shaken to the roots of his soul. He had always believed that his mentor could do anything, but not...bring him back from death.

''I will not leave thee, thou art mine. The only thing that saves me from...what I could become.''

''I only ever w-wanted to b-be with thee!'' Elgalad nuzzled into the curve of Vanimórë's neck, his words muffled, breath warm. ''I know thou d-doth not love me, b-but I need to be with thee. Only let m-me stay with thee, as I did before !''

''Meluion...'' Vanimórë tilted up the lovely face. ''I love thee. And I will not let thee go again. But it is not quite as simple as it may seem to thee.''  
At the wondering expression in the huge eyes, he tutted and laid a hand on Elgalad's back.

''I think thou doth need wine. I most certainly do.''

'' I..._w-what?_'' Elgalad asked bewilderedly.

''That is Bree.'' Vanimórë gestured to the town. ''It is a place to start. Until we go elsewhere. And we need to talk.''

The innkeeper, Butterbur, was astonished to see two Elves, one with clothes and hair covered in blood, but ushered them up to a private chamber, nodding seriously at Vanimórë's tale of wolfsheads on the road further south, near the Barrow Downs.  
This was not altogether surprising, since the war had begun far in the south, all manner of rogues had come up the Greenway. He had wine, food and hot water brought up, then hurried down to share the news and warn the Gate Guards to let none through that night, unless they were in need of aid.

He was not there to see that when the Elgalad was undressed, there was no wound upon him. Vanimórë tore the ruined tunic and fed it to the fire in the hearth.

''Where were w-we?" Elgalad asked eventually, still dazed, as Vanimórë handed him hot wine.  
''That p-place...the light...L-Legolas was there, and Maglor and h-his son and Glorfindel – where are they? What h-happened?''

''I went mad.'' Vanimórë sat down and put an arm about his ward. Always his now, forever. ''I killed thee and I knew the Valar would have no pity on me if I sought thee. I had to force an entrance to the Blessed Realm. Blessed !'' He felt nothing but contempt. "But in truth, Ilúvatar acted through me, protected me, aided me in what I did.''

And he spoke of the recovery of the Silmaril of the Oceans, of Aman, and the Bath of Flame, and of Eru's voice.

''Thou art a Power? _V-Vala?_'' Elgalad whispered.

''Yes. Strange I know." Strange? he wanted to laugh at what he felt was the absurdity of such a thing. "I died also, in Fos Almir, and was reborn there in the flame. I thought there was no way I could bring thee back, without power.  
"But it is more than that. The Valar looked at the Elves and saw children who would last as long as the world, and wanted to gather them, control them, have them as pretty servants. But they did not understand the fire within the Firstborn. Eru's fire. How could they? They did not create them. And they failed entirely to understand the Noldor, and ignored such people as the Silvan Elves who live wild and free in the world."  
"Yet there are... rules."  
"A clash of Powers can break the world, as we know, from the War of Wrath, and so the Valar rarely acted, lest they destroy the very habitation of the Children of Eru. They seemed also to ignore the fact that the Ainur who were on Middle earth, Morgoth and Sauron, felt no such constraints and did as they pleased. Eventually they sent the Istari as old men, lest my sire be roused by unshielded power. Oh, they had reasons, but they salved any conscience they had by using the Children themselves, as tools against the Dark, Elves and Men, who could die and did die...  
But Arda is alive and not stagnant, and there will always be dark and light in opposition, until the Music is sung anew. I am what I am, I was molded to what I am, but I will never be Morgoth or Sauron for one reason: Thou. Thou didst love me, unconditionally, unreasonably. Were it not for thee, I might indeed step into Sauron's boots, as it is...the balance is fine but it holds."

"And Lord Glorfindel?" Elgalad asked.

"Something – some-one – touched him a long time ago, and he has lived twice. He knows his people and loves them. He will lead them to a place where they can live in freedom.''

Elgalad considered it and shook his head bemusedly.  
''Where will _we_ l-live, my lord, wh-where will we g-go?''

  
''South perhaps, far to the south of the Harad, there are places there where I can build kingdoms: the Seven Dominions, the Land of Spice, the Thousand Cities, places of heat and gold and slaves and wars. Places my sire never truly knew of, places I have never seen.''

''My L-Lord?''

''Yes?''

''I love thee.'' the soft voiced tipped toward sleep.

''I know,'' Vanimórë said warmly. "And thou hast saved me, my dear."

A slender hand rose to his cheek and touched it shyly.  
''Thou dost truly l-love me?''

Vanimórë nodded.  
"I love thee. Now rest.''

''Wilt thou r-rest with m-me?'' The fair cheeks flushed.

''I had better not,'' Vanimórë said dryly. ''Thou still hath no real idea of what I am, or what thou dost want from me.''

''But I _want_ th-thee," Elgalad whispered intensely. "I am n-not a child. I am thine. I always h-have been.''

''Yes, and I have a responsibility not to break the one thing which saves me.'' Lowering his head, Vanimórë sought the sweet lips that opened eagerly under his. He tasted wine and honey and he drank from that sweetness, as Elgalad's hands clenched on his tunic, and he moaned.

''I truly think thou shouldst rest. Alone.'' Vanimórë rose, righting Elgalad, who staggered and looked at him with brilliant eyes, half-laughing in wonder.  
''We have all the time in the world, Meluion and believe me, thou wilt take some time to accustom myself to.'' His voice dipped into arousal.

''P-Please..!''

''Bed. Now.'' Vanimórë commanded. ''This has already been a long..._long_ day, and I need to think. I will not leave thee, I swear it, not again. Now rest.''

He passed a hand down the long damp hair, and caught Elgalad as he fell into instant slumber. That was easy, far easier than it had been outside Esgaroth. He was not comfortable with the thought that such tampering with people should be effortless. Lifting him, Vanimórë laid him in the bed and drew the the coverlets up, then sat down, picked up his wine and stared into the flames of the fire.

_Eru, I think thou must posses humor. I want to get into that bed and take him. Why can I not? Because some-one with Power who believes they can do anything they wish becomes Morgoth, Sauron, the Valar, and I have lived so long rejecting them that I cannot follow that path. But there was always that risk, so thou didst allow Elgalad to be brought back from death to stand between me and my...potentiality. _  
He shook his head and picked up his wine with a faint smile, then paused, opened his hand to the firelight and watched it trace the angles of the white mark forever burned upon his palm: the facets of a Silmaril.

~~~

It had been deserted for a very long time. The sea winds and storms had gnawed the buildings, and nature had drawn green fingers over the stone, but the harbor still stood, and it was clear what this place had once been. The sea was calm that day, and gulls wove in updrafts over their heads, graceful, greedy scavengers of the shore.

''Edhellond,'' Vanimórë murmured, looking at Elgalad. ''Dost thou remember? thou wert very young when we left here.''

Elgalad nodded slowly. ''I remember my l-lord . '' His eyes were troubled. ''Why d-didst thou bring me h-here?''

''Come with me. It is time for thee to know whom thou art.''

Close to the sea, beyond the stone quays, Vanimórë halted. Cliffs rose beyond them, bounding the entrance to the bay. It was very quiet, as if both the land and water were steeped in the memory of a time when the Teleri had dwelt here, and made it a place of music and beauty, had built their white ships and, ever and anon, sailed into the west, never to return. They were gone...but Edhellond remembered. Every land where the Elves had lived, remembered them, in wood, or in water, in earth or in stone.

Vanimórë lifted a hand and beckoned, his fingers rested lightly on Elgalad's back, but his eyes looked downward.

''I buried thy parents here at our feet.'' He said.

He felt the taut muscles go stiff under his hand, the grey eyes flew to his face. Vanimórë had never vouchsafed much about Elgalad's parents; he only knew that his mother had been beautiful and gentle.

''Her name was Nimrodel,'' Vanimórë said, ''His name was Amroth.''

The ground seemed to become as inconsistent under Elgalad's feet.

Amroth and Nimrodel? How many times had he heard that song sung, felt it's sadness and poignancy that none had ever known what became of the lovers.

''No-one would ever have known,'' Vanimórë said, ''How thinks't thou the stories started if there were none who knew? If Edhellond were deserted? I told the tale to hunters and fisherfolk, and villagers through the southern lands, as if it were something I had heard. In the days when the peace of Lórinand was threatened by Durin's Bane, many Elves fled. Edhellond was always the southern Haven for the Elves. One of Nimrodel's companions, Mithrellas, was found by the ancestor of Imrahil of Dol Amroth and bore him a son before she left him – Sindarin blood can still be seen in that House. She knew that Nimrodel became lost in the Ered Nimrais; no doubt she went back to her people and carried the tale with her. What Mithrellas did not know was that thy mother carried thee."  
He looked out across the waters, remembering a time when he had never believed he would be free, his first sight of Nimrodel, and his sensing of the life that grew within her: Elgalad.

"I was in these lands then, sent from Mordor, so were two of the _Úlairi._ They did not touch her, but she saw at least one and fled, and became separated from Amroth. I found her and brought her here. But there were no ships – and thou knowest the rest of the tale. I found him drowned. Nimrodel hoped he would come, but something in her soul knew that he was dead, I think, and she waited only to birth the child of her love. Then she died. Her passing was very peaceful.''  
He laid his hands on Elgalad's straight shoulders.

''S-So...they are in Aman? Reborn?''

''Yes, and better there. Thy mother was a gentle soul, like thee. They live and love in peace now.''

Elgalad bowed his head hard against Vanimórë's shoulder.

''Thou couldst have been King of Lórinand, but I think that Galadriel Finarfiniel was supposed to be there, fated to be, perhaps.''

''I do n-not want to be a k-king,'' Elgalad murmured. ''I want t-to be thine. Forever.''

''I hope thou wilt remember that, Meluion and not regret thy words." There was a touch of dark humor in the answer. "Thou art indeed bound to me forever. Thou standest between me and all that my own sire was, and Morgoth Bauglir before him. I am thine. Thou art mine.''

_ But thou wilt not take me ! _

''I would destroy the very thing that saves me,'' Vanimórë said sadly. ''Thou art both temptation and redemption. How could I take thee and sully thee with my life, my darkness? I must love thee and not possess thee, my love, for thou...art mine _innocence,_ Elgalad Meluion.'' ~

  


  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=257innm)   
> 
> 
> Vanimórë by Niyochara on Tumblr
> 
> http://niyochara.tumblr.com/

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Braid](https://archiveofourown.org/works/79415) by [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel)
  * [Keeping Legolas Company](https://archiveofourown.org/works/79416) by [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel)
  * [Laurië Celvarmólet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/79417) by [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel)
  * [[Podfic] Dark Prince](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2764685) by [Chantress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chantress/pseuds/Chantress)




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